


The Sigerson Letters

by h3rring, makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, Clearing Sherlock's Name, Emails, Estrangement, Letters to Home, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/pseuds/h3rring, https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend." - "The Empty House," Sir Arthur Conan Doyle</p><p>A month after the fall, John begins receiving emails from a young fan who calls himself Jeremy Sigerson, a fan who seems determined to keep an eye on John and single-handedly spread the truth about Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty.  But that's surely a task too monumental for one man, isn't it?  Unless that man is...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. July 16th - September 6th

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall" and copious allusions to ACD canon. Enjoy!

* * *

**You Are Not Alone**

Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
July 16th

Dear Dr. Watson,

My name is Jeremy Sigerson, but that's not important.  I've never been a client of yours and Sherlock's, just a fan, for quite a while.  I'm writing to you because I want you to know that you have my full support going forward.  In fact, you have the full support of so many people from all over the place.  Sherlock Holmes was an amazing human being no matter what crap the mainstream media tries to cram down our throats.  My friends and I, we're really upset, bewildered, but we know that's nothing compared to how you must feel.  I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry that we don't have a way to make it better.  All we've got is words, and we've begun spreading those words across the Internet.  Our message will be heard:  _We believe in Sherlock Holmes._

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

Anyway, I'm not expecting a response - just letting you know.  Maybe it'll help a bit.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

 **Did You See The News?**

Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
August 2nd

Dear Dr. Watson,

Hello, this is Jeremy Sigerson again.  I know you're probably not checking this email anymore, but I need to say something again.  Out of everyone, you would understand how I feel the most.  So, this thing happening with Raoul de Santos?  The houseboy who murdered Connie Prince?  So.  Incredibly.  Stupid.  Raoul had appealed his conviction - and now they are taking him seriously!  I don't know what to think.  It sets a disturbing precedent.  Everyone Sherlock helped to convict will start coming out of the woodwork.  So many scumbags will be set free just because the evidence linking them to their crimes was discovered by Sherlock.  I've gone through Sherlock's blog, his case files, and all of the details of how and why are right there.  Now it's all moot, and no one will listen...

Sorry, I'm just upset right now.  Our Internet messaging campaign has been going well, but not well enough.  Obviously not.  Talking heads are still repeating 'fraud' this and 'fraud' that.  They're destroying Sherlock's life in front of a slavering audience.  It makes me feel sick.  It makes me look at myself and wonder: would anyone care enough to destroy my reputation?  Thankfully, no.  That is,  _until_ I became someone famous and important and inspiring, like Sherlock, 'The Reichenbach Hero'.  That's what humanity enjoys - we delight in tearing down people bigger than us.  Just so we don't feel so small and transient.  The media always turns on anyone in the spotlight, eventually.  Controversy sells!  It's a cycle that has no reason to stop.  The wheel keeps turning, and nothing ever changes.

Well, this became a sermon.  And incoherent.  I'm sorry.

I'm not going to lose hope, though.  Neither should you.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

 **I’ll Prove It To Everyone**

Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
September 4th

Dear Dr. Watson,

I'm having what you could call an identity crisis.  People tell me I'm too young to have one, but I don't know how else to describe it.  Here's the short and bittersweet: I'm not doing anything worthwhile with my life.  I lost my job a week ago in a corporate 'reshuffle' caused by the economic downturn and new austerity measures.  Regardless, I was nothing more than a code pushing monkey for that company.  Aside from my work on the Sherlock Holmes messaging campaign, there's not much else I can say about myself or my hobbies.  My personal interests are vague and my beliefs aren't any better.

So I asked myself, is there anything - any idea - that I would be willing to fight for?  On the other hand, fighting for something doesn't really matter these days because the corporations and government and whatever don't care about me or any of us.  They're just doing their own thing; they're always doing their own thing.  I'm invisible and voiceless, so none of it matters.  I'm unable to relate to any socio-economic protest movements on a national or global level.  I feel cut adrift.  It sucks.

But the more I think about it, the more I realise that this Sherlock thing  _does_ matter to me.  A lot.  A hell of a lot, actually.  Everything that happened to him is a symptom of a larger problem in our society.  The cycle I talked about last time, remember?  But instead of sitting on the Internet and bitching, I'm going to go outside and  _do_ something about it.  (And I don't mean spray painting graffiti like some people do.)

This is my sort of protest:  I believe in Sherlock Holmes.  Richard Brook is a fraud.  James Moriarty is real.

And I'm going to prove it.

Of course I'm not as smart as Sherlock.  I don't have as many connections.  Maybe it  _is_  suicidal, but I don't care at this point.  I've pooled my life savings and already bought my train ticket.  By following Sherlock's old cases, finding the people he helped, maybe I can unravel the truth.  Maybe I can show the world what happened.  I'll write again if this plan doesn't completely crash and burn.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

 **RE: I’ll Prove It To Everyone**

John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
to Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
September 6th

Jeremy,

Thank you for your emails.  I’m replying through this account since my old inbox has been completely flooded and I set this one up to manage fanmail and sympathy notes.  Sorry I took so long to get back to you, I’m not very good with responses these days.

While I appreciate what you’re trying to do and I’m sure Sherlock would too, I think you’re going too far.  Once the press and the public have formed an opinion, there’s very little you can do to change their minds.  Sherlock Holmes was a great man, but he’s dead now and you don’t need to feel obligated to speak for him.

Try to find another job and forget about backpacking through Europe.  You’ll thank me later.

John Watson

* * *

 **RE: I’ll Prove It To Everyone**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
September 6th

Dear Dr. Watson,

I was wondering if telling you my plan would finally elicit a response.  I'm glad that it did!  No, I'm still going through with things.  Have gone through with them, technically speaking.  I'm on a train right now, still trying to figure out a manageable itinerary.  Spontaneity shall be my best friend.

Let me make one thing clear: this is not about feeling obligated or anything like that.  Maybe I can make a difference for you and everyone else, you know?  Maybe I can shed some light on some very bad people.  Even if it's a waste of time, I don't feel like it is.  You said you'd appreciate it, and Sherlock would too, even if it's extreme.  That's all the blessing I need.  And if you think I'm being crazy... you should see some of your other fans.  People are still wearing those black armbands in mourning, just saying.

Don't worry about writing me back if you don't feel up to it.  Take care of yourself.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

 **RE: I’ll Prove It To Everyone**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
September 6th

Jeremy,

If you insist on going through with this, I can give you a list of contacts.  Sherlock didn’t keep their information but I did.  Tell me where you’re going.  If you’re going to London, maybe we could meet and talk this through.  I still think you’re making a mistake.

John Watson

* * *

 **RE: I’ll Prove It To Everyone**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
September 6th

Dear Dr. Watson,

Thank you.  Really, thank you so much.  That's more than I could have hoped for.  If it's not too much trouble for you - please send along anything and everything that might be beneficial.  I'm starting with England, but I'll go as far as my money can take me.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

 

PS:  I'm not making a mistake.


	2. September 8th - September 12th

* * *

**Answers and More Questions**

Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
September 8th

Dear Dr. Watson,

Once more I've got to thank you for giving me this contact info.  It's helped me immensely in figuring out which of Sherlock's case files I should look into first.  But you know what's weird?  Most cases involving murder, corpses, autopsies and the like - they intersect with one particular pathologist at St Barts.  A woman named Molly Hooper. Did Sherlock not want to work with anyone else?  Do you know?  Hospitals should have more than one morgue attendant, right?

Anyway, I spoke with her on the phone and she seems nice.  Quiet, maybe nervous, but nice.  There are issues of confidentiality to deal with, but I did get her to open up about Sherlock and a few of his cases.  It just reinforced the obvious for me: unless Sherlock was literally _not human_ , there's no possible way that he had the time and inclination to hurt so many people.  These murders I'm looking into happened so many ways, in so many places, with modi operandi ranging from the mundane to the psychopathic.  How can even the stupidest person think that Sherlock was responsible for dozens of cruel acts in the last 30 years?

I could rant about this forever.  If you want to know my in-depth findings, just tell me.  I'm about to visit one of his clients from a while back - from before he met you, actually.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

  
**RE: Answers and More Questions**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
September 9th

Jeremy,

I’m glad you found the information helpful, it seems like you’re looking in the right places if you’ve already spoken to Molly.  Sherlock preferred to work with her because she would actually listen to him and do as he said.  She was a little bit in love with him, I think, and he sort of took advantage.

I also think he did trust her, but it’s hard to tell with him.  He doesn’t say much about who he trusts and who he doesn’t.  Didn’t.  Sorry, it’s hard for me to remember which to use and I feel like if I go back and delete it I won’t be able to write it again.  Switching tenses like that came up once in a case of ours, believe it or not.

And exactly, that’s what I’ve been saying: in some of the cases people accuse Sherlock of tampering with, he’d have to have done so when he was a toddler.  And he’s clever, but I don’t think he was that clever.  Still, just a little common sense and most of this could have been avoided.  He might still be here.

You can keep me updated if you want, I don’t know.  Enough time’s passed that I feel like I should be distancing myself from him and all of this but that isn’t working as well as I’d hoped.  So, sure.  Keep me updated.

Out of curiosity, what are you planning on doing with all of this information?  Publishing a book?  
  
John Watson

* * *

  
**RE: Answers and More Questions**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
September 9th

Dear Dr. Watson,

Actually, I did notice that Molly is 'a little bit in love with him'.  Definitely don't need a genius-level intellect to see that.  But, sorry, I shouldn't gossip about her - she was very patient and helpful with me.  If it's any consolation, she kept mixing up her tenses too.  I guess it's unbelievable even after however much time.  I didn't even know him and I'm still bewildered.  Molly hasn't come to terms with it either, which makes sense.  Now the last thing I want to be is an armchair psychologist, but she sounds like someone you can talk to about Sherlock.  (Someone who's not a complete stranger, I mean.  I doubt talking to me is ideal.  Unless you're comfortable?  I want to be respectful.)

Most people either love(d) or hate(d) Sherlock Holmes.  Can't find much of a grey area where he's concerned.  Some people are just polarising that way.

Regardless, I decided that establishing a genuine, verifiable timeline of events in Sherlock's life will be the best defence.  I'm starting with his career because it affords many opportunities to create a cast-iron alibi.  Much of Richard Brook's testimony is paper-thin at best, so I'm going to tear it apart with facts and more facts.  Obviously, if Sherlock was busy solving The Laughing Pilot, where he tested various dissociative anaesthetics on himself (have you read that case?  insane!), then he couldn't have coordinated anything to do with The Purple Woman.  Should be obvious.  People may keep accusing him of a huge conspiracy, but this is a start.

I'm attaching a timeline for the past six years or so that I've constructed from his website and the few people I've talked to.  Not ready to delve any deeper into the past yet.  If you have anything to add, go ahead; maybe he mentioned less well-documented cases to you.

As for my long-term plans, I simply don't know.  This isn't about making a profit or becoming the world's only honest investigative journalist.  Fame and fortune don't interest me.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

  
**RE: Answers and More Questions**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
September 9th

Jeremy,

It’s all right to give me that kind of advice.  Everyone does it whether I ask or not.  My favourite is ‘it’s been three months, maybe you should try dating again’.  (Never mind that Sherlock and I weren’t ever actually dating.  No one seems to remember that.)

I haven’t been in touch with many of our mutual friends for that reason.   Everyone says ‘I’m so sorry’ and I appreciate that but they all either secretly believe I’m crazy or spend the entire conversation looking at me and thinking that they should have been able to do something and wondering how it must feel to be me.  The thing is that no one knows how that feels.  I don’t want anyone else to know how it feels.  It’s sort of like coming home from Afghanistan except a thousand times worse somehow.  I don’t think anything I experienced overseas could compare to what I felt in those few seconds that I watched him fall.

Look, I’m sorry.  Been a long day and I have too many things to think about.  It’s a lot easier to say this in print to a stranger than it is to say out loud to my actual therapist, and I’m paying her to listen to me.  I don’t know why that’s the case.  You probably don’t want to know any of this anyway, so ignore it.  Don’t put it in your book.

Maybe I will call Molly later.  Thank you.

The timeline looks accurate to me.  I’m attaching a few more cases he’s referenced in passing that I don’t know the dates for, and some lesser-known ones that we worked on together.

I don’t know how anyone could think he had the time to set up his crimes.  I _lived_ with him.  Unless he worked around the clock whenever I was away, which wasn’t very often, there’s no possible way he could have staged his cases.  I’ve said it before, but I’m tired of speaking out and having it fall on deaf ears.  I’m just so tired.

I could tell this isn’t about journalism, though.  You’re not like a journalist.  I’ve met journalists.  I don’t know what you are.  There’s a part of me that’s sort of suspicious of you but I looked you up online and everything seemed all right.  So if you really are a concerned citizen, here’s a piece of advice: be careful, Moriarty’s probably still out there somewhere.  Keep a low profile.

John Watson

PS:  If you turn out to actually be Moriarty, I will hunt you down myself.

* * *

 **RE: Answers and More Questions**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
September 10th

Dear Dr. Watson,

Obviously I don't know where you're coming from, but I understand.  Death gets to everyone sooner or later, so I understand what it's like to have a person close to you die.  They die, it's traumatising, you don't really talk about it afterwards.  My mother passed away more than ten years ago and I still think about her, what went on, every day.  Terminal illness.  Much slower than falling, but still devastating.  So I'm going to say 'I'm sorry' for the both of us, all right?  If it's helping, or it's better than the alternative, I'm perfectly willing to listen to you.  Otherwise feel free to disregard all of that.  Whatever you want: it's all fine.  Definitely not going to end up in a book.  I told you that I don't have long-term plans.

Speaking of books, will you do anything with your blog?  Are you going to write more about Sherlock one day?  If you can't stay distant, it might be... illuminating.  Maybe like catharsis.  Sorry, doing that armchair psychologist thing again.  I think too much, too.

Okay, I'm only putting off what I actually need say.  You've been direct and helpful with me thus far, so I should come clean to you.  Here it is: I'm not being entirely honest about who I am or what I'm doing out here.  No, stop, don't bother getting up - I'm not James Moriarty or one of his lackeys.  I'm still Jeremy Sigerson, the former code monkey suffering from an identity crisis too soon.  But I didn't walk away from my (meaningless, empty, boring) life on a whim merely to research Sherlock's career and then repair his reputation.

You could say this is a bit of vigilante justice on my part.

Yes, I'm searching for concrete proof of Moriarty's empire.  Once I have that, I shall destroy it.  Primary goal.  I'm aware of how insane that sounds, but I can take care of myself and Moriarty won't expect someone like me.  Background: when I was going over Sherlock's cases, I started to notice a disturbing pattern in them.  I think Moriarty has been making flirtatious overtures to Sherlock for _years_ through many different crimes - not all of them, but enough.  You remember how everything in The Great Game was set up by Moriarty?  Well, that wasn't the first time - Sherlock just didn't notice it before - or maybe he did and never said.  It was so subtle and insidious, though.  Maybe Moriarty got bored and stepped things up.  I'm good at pattern recognition, so I'm not imagining things.  I swear to you.

Now you may reply and lecture me to your heart's content.

Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

**RE: Answers and More Questions**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
September 12th

Jeremy,

I’ve read your email over at least five times.  I’m not going to bother lecturing you because I’m sure you’ve thought of everything I have to say (go back home, get a job, etc).  I can’t give you my blessing because it’s not going to be on my head if you get killed too, but I can say this: you are insane.

You might just be insane enough.

I don’t think I can join you because I’m pretty sure I’m being watched by Moriarty’s men.  I would if I could, though.  After thinking on it, something like this might be what I need.  Living vicariously.

Like I said before, be careful and try to keep a low profile.  You might be able to guilt some funding and information of Sherlock’s brother Mycroft if you need to, he has a couple of damn good reasons to be sorry.  Other than that, I don’t have any ideas.  You’re on your own.

Stay safe, and please keep writing.

John Watson


	3. October 16th - October 25th

* * *

* * *

**The Curious Incident in the Nighttime**  
  
John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
to Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
October 16th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Thank you for continuing to keep me informed.  I’m a bit surprised to hear that you’re still travelling around the Continent.  I didn’t think Sherlock had so many friends.  Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, though.  He touched a lot of lives.  
  
Anyway, I’m writing to tell you about something extraordinarily stupid that I did the other day.  I guess you’ll have to lecture me this time around.  
  
You mentioned the ‘Believe in Sherlock’ campaign before, but I had no idea what it was at the time because I wasn’t leaving my flat very much.  I know now, though.  I can hardly go anywhere without seeing a little part of it: flyers, photos, sidewalk chalk, even actual graffiti.  Everything proclaiming ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’.  I noticed a lot of it was old, though, and that people have started taking the flyers down and scrubbing the graffiti away, and I thought, well, that’s not right.  Just because Sherlock’s been dead for months doesn’t mean people have stopped believing in him and in what he said and did.  I know I haven’t, and I know you haven’t, and I’m starting to realise there are more of us out there.  
  
Sherlock knew a couple of people who were involved in what I guess you’d call the ‘street art’ scene, so I went out and consulted one of them, Raz.  Have you contacted him yet?  Anyway, he told me that he and his friends had been the ones putting Sherlock’s name up all over London, but that some of his mates had sort of lost enthusiasm for it.  What’s the point?  After all, no one’s listening to them, and it’s not as if Sherlock’s coming back to clear his own name.  
  
I wasn’t going to stand for that sort of talk, though, especially not when a good man like Greg Lestrade is under investigation now because people stopped believing in Shelrock.  So I bought a couple of cans of paint for myself, and then I went out and I did it.  Late last night, I wrote ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ in three places where a lot of people will see them.  Don’t worry, no one saw me do it.  A couple of times I thought someone was following me, but I’m pretty sure that’s just paranoia talking.  
  
I’m telling you because I can’t tell Ella, my therapist, what with the legal issues involved.  I had to tell someone, though.  I woke up this morning and I was tired, but I still felt better than I have in a very long time.  
  
I hope you’re still doing well.  I know you’re busy, but please try to write as soon as you can.  
  
John

* * *

 **RE: The Curious Incident in the Nighttime**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
October 17th  
  
Dear Dr. Watson,  
  
I'm not going to lecture you too much, if only because your subject line is sort of endearing.  'The Curious Incident in the Nighttime'?  Really?  Are you practising?  
  
A visible contribution to the cause in your own way, I should've expected that.  But I'm not the only one who needs to keep a low profile, Dr. Watson.  Don't alter your behaviour drastically if you can help it, please.  If you're in mourning, stay in mourning; widowers don't attract much attention.  It seems like Sherlock's friends - the more knowledgeable ones, anyway - are being monitored by someone for some reason.  So that might not have been just your paranoia last night.    
  
There's something going on, something not good.  I don't want it to get any worse for you.  
  
At least one person was threatened, maybe more than one, I can't know for sure.  I spoke with a woman who was extremely unsure about granting me an interview.  Even though she claimed to believe in Sherlock, she kept repeating 'the past's the past' and apologising.  Trust me, confrontation isn't easy for me, but I kept pressing for an explanation.  
  
Eventually she told me of a strong-looking man with curly hair.  He offered her a lot of money to stay away from any sort of advocacy - to keep her thoughts to herself.  Something like that hasn't happened to you, right?  Or to your landlady?  You must tell me if and when the situation escalates.  I suppose this man belongs to Moriarty's empire and they're all starting to realise my 'Believe in Sherlock' campaign isn't going away.  Enthusiasm may dwindle but we've got a militant core of supporters.  Won't be threatened into submission.  At the very least, I won't stop searching for the truth because the truth is freedom.  When I expose the lies, they're not going to be happy.  
  
They haven't caught on (up) to me yet.  Touch wood.  
  
Raz does ring a bell for me.  Maybe an online handle.  I'll look into my chat records - but we've set up a more secure IRC channel, did I tell you?  I'll send a link to you soon.  You're welcome to join and chat with other people who believe.  
  
Thank you for telling me about last night, though.  It's inspiring in a profoundly stupid way.  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

 **RE: The Curious Incident in the Nighttime**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
October 17th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
You sound just like Sherlock.  No, I’m not practising, I just haven’t had a chance to use creative titles since I stopped updating my blog.  I’ll admit that I’ve sort of missed it.  
  
Oh for God’s sake, I’m not a widower.  Sherlock and I weren’t married, despite what the papers will tell you.  We weren’t boyfriends or anything like that.  I know what you meant, but it still pisses me off to an unreasonable degree.  Maybe because I don’t know what we were in the end, actually.  I don’t think we were a couple, but who knows what Sherlock thought.  He didn’t have very much to say about it even though everyone else did.  I cared about him a lot, I just… I don’t know.  Sorry for the rant.  
  
I wouldn’t worry much about me if I were you, though.  I have a daily routine and it’s not at all exciting and doesn’t vary that much.  I’ve a new flat on the other side of London from Baker Street, and a new job that appeared really quickly, actually, so I think Mycroft Holmes might have pulled a couple of strings there.  It pays all of my bills, so I can’t really complain.  I’m still seeing my therapist, but other than that I don’t go out much.  I’ve dabbled in online dating lately, but that hasn’t gone anywhere.  Still just trying to get back into the normal swing of things.  
  
As far as I know, no, no one has been threatened.  Mrs Hudson isn’t my landlady anymore, but last I spoke to her she was doing all right.  That ‘strong-looking man with curly hair’ you mentioned sounds like it could be Sebastian Moran.  According to Sherlock’s notes, he’s one of Moriarty’s inner circle.  I only had the pleasure of meeting him a couple of times, but once he decked me out in Semtex and aimed a sniper rifle at me.  Can’t say we got on particularly well.  Do a little research on him.  
  
Any word on Moriarty himself, by the way?  He disappeared without a trace after Sherlock fell, and he hasn’t been around to gloat yet.  Seems a bit fishy.  
  
Anyway, I’ll keep my head down.  You should do the same, though.  Just because they haven’t caught up to you yet doesn’t mean that you’re invincible.  And while I’m on the subject, don’t let yourself get too changed by this whole campaign.  I mean, hearing you say things like ‘militant core of supporters’ and ‘people who believe’ makes me a bit wary.  This almost sounds like a cult, and I wouldn’t want that.  Sherlock wasn’t a god, he was a man, and memorialising is different from worshipping someone.  You’re such a bright and hopeful young man that I don’t want to see you irrevocably changed by this campaign.  Just be careful, that’s what I’m trying to say.   Don’t get consumed.  
  
I’m not sure how I’d feel about joining in on an IRC channel.  How does that work?  I’ve never been technologically savvy.  
  
Glad to make you smile.  Going out like that again wouldn’t be very smart of me, would it?  I’m still very tempted, though.  We’ll see.  
  
Take care.  
  
John  
  
PS: We’ve been writing for more than two months, you don’t have to keep calling me ‘Dr. Watson’.  Just ‘John’ is fine.

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

**Chat with Jeremy Sigerson**  
October 18th, 12:13 AM

 **John** : Hello?

 **Jeremy** : Hi.

 **John** : Hi, Jeremy? This is John Watson.

 **Jeremy** : Yes, I can see that. Our names are right there.

 **John** : Oh, right, sorry.  
  Sorry, I've never done this before.

 **Jeremy** : It's fine, you caught me before I logged off, actually.

 **John** : Sorry.  
  It's late, don't let me keep you.

 **Jeremy** : Don't apologise, I was just checking my mail. How are you?

 **John** : I'm fine.

 **Jeremy** : Not going out tonight or anything?

 **John** : I thought about it.  
  And then I decided that it might be a bit safer to stay in.  
  Now I'm going absolutely stir-crazy and can't sleep, so I'm not sure I made the right choice.  
  What was the plant about?

 **Jeremy** : I like knowing you're safe, though.  
  The plant is... I was just browsing the Internet a bit, it's what I had handy. I like plants, too. And that one is shy.

 **John** : Well, it's nice of you to care, thank you.  
  Hm, a shy plant.  
  Trying to give me some insight into your personality?

 **Jeremy** : Well I don't perform photosynthesis or anything. Simply didn't know if you wanted to talk to me like this.

 **John** : Neither did I, but I figured it was worth a shot.

 **Jeremy** : Nothing has gone horribly wrong...

 **John** : Well, not yet.

 **Jeremy** : It's just chatting, Dr. Watson. Er, John.

 **John** : Bit hard to get used to?

 **Jeremy** : You're 'Dr. Watson' in my head still, that's all.

 **John** : You can call me whatever you want.

 **Jeremy** : John.

 **John** : Then that's fine.  
  How are  _you_?

 **Jeremy** : Can't really complain. Under a roof tonight.

 **John** : What, you haven't been sleeping rough, have you?

 **Jeremy** : When it's necessary. I don't want to leave a paper trail.

 **John** : Jesus, don't do that.  
  You can always come crash with me if you need to, I think I said that.

 **Jeremy** : Why not? Less chance to get followed or whatever. I'm not being paranoid, just realistic.  
  You did. I'm nowhere near you, though.

 **John** : I know.  
  I'm just saying.

 **Jeremy** : Maybe the next time I'm in London.  
  Maybe.  
  If it's all right.

 **John:** I've already said it's fine.

 **Jeremy** : Then maybe next time.

 **John** : Sorry - I'm not sure how this works on the Internet, but you brought up the shy plant and I really can't tell, so I'm just going to ask.  
  Are you flirting with me?

 **Jeremy** : I'm sorry.

 **John** : So that's a yes?

 **Jeremy** : Maybe? I don't know what I'm doing either, it's late, sorry.

 **John** : No, no, it's fine.  
  Look, it's fine if you are, I'm flattered.  
  But contrary to popular belief, I'm not gay.  
  I don't think I told you that before.

 **Jeremy** : I didn't mean to offend.  
  Just forget all of that, I should go to bed.

 **John** : No, wait.  
  You didn't offend me.

 **Jeremy** : Well that's a relief

 **John** : Look, god knows you wouldn't be the first to think something like that.  
  I didn't mean to put you on the spot, Jeremy.

 **Jeremy** : No, thank you for correcting me.  
  Just forget it, please.

 **John** : All right.  
  So, roof over your head. Can you tell me where you are?

 **Jeremy** : They speak French around here.

 **John** : Well, that doesn't actually narrow it down, when you think about it.  
  I was going to say 'France', but...

 **Jeremy** : Close enough, really.  
  I'll be okay.

 **John** : I hope so.  
  You worry me.  
  Don't take that the wrong way, you just seem very young.  
  And you're taking on criminal organisations single-handedly, practically.

 **Jeremy** : Not that much younger than you! I'm almost 30, and you're... 50?  
  55??

 **John** : You little shit! You've done the research, you know how old I am.

 **Jeremy** : Okay, okay, I'm a decade your junior. I'm taking care of myself.

 **John** : Admittedly, that's older than I thought.  
  Look, I know we're practically strangers, but I just don't want to see anyone else's life ruined. You can understand that, can't you?

 **Jeremy** : John, I know that. I'm not a martyr or anything.

 **John** : What are you?  
  And if you say 'someone who believes' I swear I'll actually punch you in the face when I see you.

 **Jeremy** : Nobody.

 **John** : You're not nobody.

 **Jeremy** : Sorry, that sounded really emo. I'm someone who's trying to help.

 **John** : Well, I do appreciate that.  
  I'd appreciate it even more if you didn't sleep outside.

 **Jeremy** : The stars are really beautiful, though.

 **John** : They are, aren't they?  
  All right, you can sleep outside, but only when it's not raining.

 **Jeremy** : Will do.

 **John** : Doctor's orders.

 **Jeremy** : Don't send me a bill for that

 **John** : I won't.  
  But it really must be late over there.  
  Get some sleep while you can.

 **Jeremy** : Okay, sounds good. Go to sleep too. Good night.

 **John** : Good night.  
  Take care of yourself.

 **Jeremy** : you too.

* * *

**Checking In**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
October 24th

Jeremy,

I haven’t heard from you in a while.  How have you been?

I didn’t mean to scare you off during our conversation.  You’ve said you’re shy, so let me just say again that I wasn’t at all offended.  If someone flirts with me, I’m flattered no matter who it is.  I just didn’t want to get your hopes up.

You seemed a little uncomfortable so I also wanted to say that there’s nothing wrong with being gay, or bisexual, or whatever you are.  My sister, for one, is gay, although she’s probably not a very good role model for you.  What I’m trying to say is that it’s fine.  And, going by your Facebook photos, you’re an attractive guy, so I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a boyfriend if you want one.

This sounded much more articulate in my head.  I’m sure you can appreciate that.

Write back soon.  I’d really like to know you’re okay.

John

* * *

 **RE: Checking In**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
October 25th  
  
Dear John,  
  
Things have been very hectic for me - cancelled plans, missed connections, losing my biggest lead, just one crisis after another.  Sorry I haven't been able to write back before now.  Kept slipping my mind.  
  
You didn't scare me off.  My heart didn't get broken, or whatever.  Your disinterest was obvious right from the start.  I don't know what the flirting was for - I was tired, lonely, maybe giving too much credence to nonsense rumours.  Won't happen again, okay?  No more erroneous assumptions.  And I do appreciate the reassurance, thank you, but I'm not worried about my sexuality.  Honestly, it's somewhat uncharted territory for me; no one has ever liked me like that.  Pathetic, right, I guess so.  Your compliments are welcome, even flattering, but I have a bad case of 'MySpace angles' in my photos.  Some crooked angles and amping the contrast -  _voila_ , a more appealing Jeremy.  Photoshop is a godsend for the everyman.  
  
So, moving on to more important matters: it's nothing like a cult.  In fact, I kind of resent the implication. Granted, most of us didn't know Sherlock as well as you did.  Most of us weren't directly affected after he died.  Maybe we should just shut up, then, because we're wasting our time when people keep bleating the lies in our faces.  No, you know  _what_ , it's not even an 'our' or an 'us' anymore.  These other supporters wouldn't even think about doing what I'm doing.  It's just me out here.  Just me trying to make a difference. They'll graffiti things and post on the Internet, but everything else is life as usual with one less hero - and does it really matter? - because that's how it works in society.  It's an impersonal, indifferent froth of vacuity; it's startlingly resilient when someone tries to inject some meaning.  Sherlock tried, I know he did, and I'm trying.  So I disagree with you.  Someone giving a damn about other people shouldn't be cause for concern.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was an inspiration.  I enjoyed reading about him, maybe it was my version of living vicariously.  But that was taken away by the same cosmic consumerist short-attention-span culture that's happily bleeding us to death.  For no better reason than because I can, I'm challenging that.  I'll force people to introspect, eat their lies, feel guilty.  They'll see that Moriarty was real, that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud.  
  
This isn't about canonising Sherlock, John.  I'm doing what's right because someone has to.  
  
But I'm very tired, despite barely starting.  I'm tired of people telling me that I've gone too far, or I'm ruining my life.  You called me bright and hopeful, but I don't feel like I ever was.  Especially now.  Don't pity the loss of what I never had.  Just stop it.  Stop everything.  Forget the IRC channel and everything else, no one visits it these days anyway.  I was lying about the militant core - are you surprised?  These people back down when it's time to put up or shut up.  They're more interested in moving on to the next new scandal.  Even Mycroft Holmes won't return my calls.  
  
I'm not giving up.  
  
I can tell you one thing, maybe you'll like it.  James Moriarty is dead.  He has been dead.  I don't know when or how, exactly, but the grapevine says that his empire had some sort of civil war in his absence.  Due to the power vacuum within the inner circle.  Sebastian Moran regained control of the situation - that's why he's out and about, buying out problems, murdering my leads.  
  
If you don't hear from me for a while, I'm not dead.  Just tired.  It's cold out tonight, but the stars will keep me company.  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

 **(no subject)**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
October 25th  
  
I'm sorry, John.  I don't know what the hell I was saying.  You're the only friend I have right now, I shouldn't mouth off.  I'm really sorry.  
  
J


	4. October 26th - November 13th

* * *

**RE: (no subject)**  
  
John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
to Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
October 26th  
  
Jeremy,

You don’t have to apologise.  I re-read your email and thought about it a lot and I don’t have a good counter to what you said – in fact, I agree with you in most respects.  I’m still worried, so as soon as you can please let me know you’re all right or at least still breathing.  Please do that for me.  I don’t care at this point whether or not you lose whatever hopefulness you had (I’m not convinced you _didn’t_ have any to begin with, even if you are), but I don’t want any more lives claimed by this, and your talk about how Moran’s killing off your leads makes me think that you could be next.  Can we agree to that, at least?  Stay out of danger as best you can?

For God’s sake, who am I kidding?  That’s never going to happen.  I know your type.

Just typing this out makes me feel powerless again.  I can’t stand that.  I keep telling myself ‘at least this isn’t apathy’ but it’s honestly worse in some way.  I hate this sense of not being able to do anything for Sherlock.  Ella says that he probably would have wanted me to move on with my life, Sherlock, and I’ve done that as much as I can what with the job and the new flat and the trying to meet new people, but none of this is fulfilling in the least.  I’m not sure what would be.  I’m getting more and more energy back every day but it’s restless energy that doesn’t have an outlet.

And who knows what Sherlock would want?  Who ever knew what he was thinking?  I don’t think anyone did, least of all me.

And it’s more than just powerlessness.  I had this psychosomatic limp when I came home from Afghanistan, and being with Sherlock just made it disappear – well, it wasn’t really Sherlock’s doing, I should say.  It was the promise of excitement, I think.  Since anxiety disorders aren’t my strong suit, I did a little research after my limp disappeared the first time and found out that PTSD manifests itself in many different ways.  In some cases, it can cause people to crave danger.  I’m pretty sure that was what happened to me, and the cravings still haven’t gone away.

As if to prove it, my leg’s started hurting again.  At first it was just a little and if I noticed I could force it to the back of my mind, but not anymore.  No matter how many times I sit down and tell myself ‘this isn’t real, this is all in my head, you were shot in your blasted _shoulder_ ’, the pain doesn’t stop.  I had to dig out my cane again a couple of days ago because I had too much trouble getting up and down stairs without it.

I took a walk last night for lack of anything better to do.  I saw someone had covered up my spray paint in a couple of places.  I’m thinking of going back out and putting up ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ again.  At least that would be something.

But is it really all I can do?  I don’t have the resources or the motivation to go after Moriarty’s men (although I’m glad the man himself is dead, that’s amazing news).  Just tell me if you need help.  Money, or an extra pair of hands, or anything.

Take care,  
John

* * *

 **(no subject)**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
October 28th  
  
Why do you think Sherlock jumped?  
  
J

* * *

 **RE: (no subject)**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
October 28th  
  
What's that got to do with anything?  
  
John

* * *

 **RE: (no subject)**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
October 29th

Jeremy,

Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound defensive.  It’s something I’ve thought about a lot, and I still haven’t figured out a good answer for it yet.

Sherlock wasn’t a fraud.  You know that, I know that.  And he wouldn’t have jumped _because_ everyone thought him a fraud, either.  He didn’t give a damn about what other people thought of him.  (I had to go back and change ‘doesn’t’ to ‘didn’t’ and ‘think’ to ‘thought’.  You can see how well I’ve mastered the past tense.)

So, why?  Why would he do it?  Did Moriarty have some legitimate dirt on him?  Maybe Moriarty threatened him with… something, I don’t know.  I have no idea what would make Sherlock Holmes jump off a roof.  Can you believe that?  He was my best friend, and I’m at a loss.  I really have no idea.

If you have any thoughts, feel free to share them.  I’ve spoken to Ella about this, and she says that not knowing why Sherlock did what he did might be one of the things preventing me from having real closure.  I don’t know about that, but it’d be nice to have an outsider’s opinion on what happened.  Maybe we could get closer to figuring him out?

What do you think?

John

* * *

* * *

**RE: (no subject)**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
November 5th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
It’s been a week and I haven’t received a reply from you.  Did you get my last email?  
  
John

* * *

* * *

**RE: (no subject)**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
November 12th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
I haven’t heard from you in two weeks.  If I don’t get a reply within three days, I’m booking a flight to every single French-speaking country I can think of and coming after you myself.  
  
At least tell me you’re alive.  
  
John

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Chat with Jeremy Sigerson**  
November 13th

 **John:** Jeremy??

 **Jeremy** : I'm not dead.

 **John:** Oh, thank god.  
  Where have you been?  
  I thought you were dead, or...  
  I don't know what I thought.  
  I'm glad you're not.

 **Jeremy** : If I'm dead, you'll hear about it. But I'm not, and I won't be. All right?

 **John:** How the hell would I hear about htat?  
  that  
  jesus

 **Jeremy** : You'll hear about it because Mycroft Holmes would tell you. Calm down, please.

 **John:** I am calm.

 **Jeremy** : Liar.

 **John:** Well, one of the last things you said to me before vanishing off of the face of the Internet involved people getting killed, so I assumed the worst.  
  Finally got in touch with Mycroft?

 **Jeremy** : Don't be so pessimistic, John. You'll get wrinkles. Or, more wrinkles. I've been tracking one of Moriarty's inner circle - made sure to get him before he alerted Moran. It's fine now.  
  Mycroft has been a huge help, yes.  
  Replied to me just when I needed him.

 **John:** Guess he's still good for something.  
  If he's ever slow to get to you again, play the guilt card.  
  Do you know what he did to Sherlock?  
  It's probably 'confidential' but I don't care, I still get mad as hell just thinking about it.

 **Jeremy** : No... well, I have some idea. Not a good thing?

 **John:** Right. He and Sherlock never got on, but this had nothing to do with that.  
  Ever wonder how Moriarty got ahold of those details from Sherlock's personal life?

 **Jeremy** : Yes, that did make me think twice about Sherlock. Some of it is seamless.

 **John:** Mycroft sold him out. He sold Sherlock out.  
  Moriarty had information about some computer code and he wouldn't talk to anyone except Mycroft, so Mycroft made a deal with the devil.

 **Jeremy** : Perhaps literally.

 **John:** So if you ever need anything from him, remind him that he's the reason his little brother jumped off of Barts.  
  Oh, god, I'm so angry now, I'm sorry.  
  I should be congratulating you.

 **Jeremy** : No, you're allowed to be angry. That's better than... I read your emails. I didn't mean to do this to you, John. Make you sit up and worry about a stranger. Threaten to fly off to - well, I'm not in a French-speaking country anymore.

 **John:** Wherever.  
  You didn't do this to me, Jeremy. I've always been like this.

 **Jeremy** : I want you to be happy. If that means bringing you some closure, I'm fine with that. Jim Moriarty is dead, and I'm spooking the hell out of his lackeys.  
  You asked me what I thought in another email. Even after hearing about Mycroft, I don't think that's really why. Jim Moriarty would've figured out how to get Sherlock with or without that information.

 **John:** Well, I don't think it  _hurt_.  
  But why do you think Sherlock did it?  
  You've read up on him and whatnot. Maybe I'm just not being objective enough.

 **Jeremy** : I think you know the answer, actually. Just don't want to consider it consciously.

 **John:** What do you mean?

 **Jeremy** : Everyone has their pressure points, right? Stress thresholds.

 **John:** Right.

 **Jeremy** : What could Moriarty do to Sherlock to make him jump off a building?

 **John:** I don't know.  
  Threaten him somehow?

 **Jeremy** : Ah, you do know.

 **John:** Do I?  
  You can read my mind? You're psychic now?

 **Jeremy** : You just said it. Moriarty seemed to like using coercion, judging by these cases. When he was declared not guilty by that jury - why? Probably because he threatened every single juror with bodily harm or blackmail.

 **John:** Probably.  
  But Moriarty had already publicly 'exposed' Sherlock as a fraud, and I don't think that alone would do it.  
  Sherlock would argue his case forever, even if no one was around to listen.

 **Jeremy** : You knew him, John. What else could it have been?

 **John:** Well, grievous bodily harm's always a possibility.  
  Maybe he threatened to have Sherlock lobotomised, I think Sherlock would rather die than lose his reasoning capabilities.

 **Jeremy** : God, stop being so obtuse. Think.

 **John:** Fine, fine. Pressure points...  
  Mrs Hudson.  
  He brutally tortured an American who harmed her, once. Not sure he'd jump off a building.  
  Not for just her.  
  Other friends, too.  
  Lestrade, Molly even.  
  Me.  
  Me?

 **Jeremy** : So, what could psychotic man in charge of snipers do to ensure Sherlock kills himself...

 **John:** Threaten his friends.  
  He goes, or they do.  
  Do you really think that's it?

 **Jeremy** : Shot in the dark. Seems good to me, though.

 **John:** Jesus.

 **Jeremy** : I bet you would have done the same for him, John. It's okay.

 **John:** I'm just thinking about it now.

 **Jeremy** : Like I said, you knew and didn't want to know. When is the last time you talked? Last times? It's all there, probably. Maybe he tried to shove you away somehow, so you wouldn't think about it. So it'd hurt less. I don't know, you don't have to share that.  
  I don't know if I've made it better or worse for you. I just thought that you deserved something better than 'my best friend went insane'. Of course I can't know what really happened, I'm just guessing. I'm sorry.

 **John:** No it's fine, I'm fine.

 **Jeremy** : You don't need to lie. It's making me cry, too.

 **John:** I can barely see the keyboard.  
  Can I just have a minute?

 **Jeremy** : Yeah.

 **John:** All right, I'm back.  
  Sorry.

 **Jeremy** : Feel any better?

 **John:** Sort of.  
  I keep thinking of how scared he must have been.  
  He got scared, you know.  
  Well, you wouldn't know. Not a lot of people knew that.

 **Jeremy** : You saw him up there?

 **John:** I was there.  
  He called me.

 **Jeremy** : To say goodbye?

 **John:** Yes, he called to say goodbye.  
  Now that you brought it up, it's the only thing that makes sense.  
  Shit, I don't know what he was thinking. I'd have taken the bullet for him.  
  I'd have been relieved.  
  Sorry, I'm going to need another minute.

 **Jeremy** : Go ahead.  
  John, no matter what happened, I don't think Sherlock would want you to be so sad. To start... limping again, and all of that.

 **John:** Jeremy, I'm really sorry, but I should probably just go to bed.  
  I don't think I'm in any fit state to talk right now.

 **Jeremy** : Okay. I'll write you back soon, promise.

 **John:** If it's any consolation, this is easier.  
  It's easier to tell you that I'm upset than it is to tell my therapist, even. Maybe it's because we're not talking face-to-face.  
  Or maybe it's you, I don't know. Something about you.

 **Jeremy** : I'm a good listener, obviously.

 **John:** Oh, you can't see me, but I'm smiling.  
  I forgot for a second you couldn't see me.  
  Don't worry about me, I'm going to go catch up on some reading I've been meaning to do. Medical journals.

 **Jeremy** : It's going to be okay, John. And eventually we will meet, you know, so you can try to hide from me then but I won't let you.

 **John:** Well, that's ominous.

 **Jeremy** : I meant that in an endearing way, oops.  
  I'm just saying it's all fine.

 **John:** It's all fine.

 **Jeremy** : Go to bed. I'll work on a proper response to you.

 **John:** All right. Good night, Jeremy.

 **Jeremy** : Good night, John.

* * *

            Sherlock slams the laptop shut.  Shoves it away from him—not too far, though, not far enough for it to fall from the bed.  If he makes too much noise, they’ll be sure to notice him.  Not an option.  Won’t let that happen.  His hands are shaking too, violently, from the cold, from just thinking about them.  It really is cold in here.  “Violently” cold—is there such a thing?  The type of cold that sneaks up on someone, that viciously assaults him.  He didn't know it could get this cold; he’s been sitting here, oblivious, staring at the chat window.  Not sure how long.  John’s not here to interrupt his psychogenic fugue states.  Battery hasn’t run out, at least.  John would know.

            _Good night, Jeremy._   It’s both a relief and a disappointment, John buying into him.  Hardly questioning. Believing.  Unmistakable faith.  (The sort of faith that good men die for.)  Sherlock’s almost proud of how well he can pretend to be someone else, given the circumstances.

            It’s really cold and his hands are shaking.  His eyes are shaking.  Well, not his eyes, precisely.  On his eyes.  Tears shaking free from them.  Crying?  Should be done crying.  Crying again anyway: a saline solution so hot it practically burns his ice-cold skin.  Didn’t know it could get this cold.  Ouch.

            It’s really dark, too.  Laptop was the only source of light.  (The safest way.)  Beneath the blankets, it gets even darker.  Not any warmer, just darker.  Just darkness and the smell of cheap fabric softener. Blankets and pillow case: fragrant, starched, coarse.  Presses his face against the pillow.  Almost gets his skin scraped off.

            John Watson, what have you done to him?

            Wasn't supposed to be like this.  Not anything like this.  Not like— _cold_ , it’s cold, cold, cold, Jesus.  Jesus Christ.  (Don’t make a sound.)  His face hurts and he pushes down harder, trying to smother himself. They’re looking for him and he can’t make a sound.  Define  _they_ : a band of less than friendly people, also known as Sebastian Moran’s men.  They’re crawling all over this god-forsaken, frozen-solid, backwater inn.  Looking for him, looking for Sherlock Holmes.  (Holding his breath.)  Can hear their every movement, it seems like.  Their footsteps.  The whining sound of their heavy feet on sheets of ice, still outside on the exterior walkways.  High-pitched, but faint.  Getting louder, closer.  Not too long now.

            Snowstorm has shut down the roads, stranded all of them out here—isn’t that something?  It’s dark and it’s cold and he’s never felt more paranoid in his life than right now for good reason.

            (Crying: not conducive to holding one’s breath.)

            Tried to push you away, John.  Really tried right up to the end.  Didn’t work.  Next plan?  Last few months: tried to inject some hope into you with these letters from Jeremy.  Only made things worse.  Okay, what now?  Tonight, what just happened, what will a little bit of closure do?  Anything?  It’s by proxy, but it’s the best Sherlock can do for you.  Can’t go near you in person, obviously.  But can’t leave you alone either. John, he still talks to you when you’re not here.

            But why didn’t you just give up on Sherlock in the first place?   _Why?_   Now you have Jeremy Sigerson, the unknown prodigy, the complete fraud—and you’re, what, already threatening to go after him?  Hunt him down to protect him?  How can you be so invested so quickly?  How in the world did that happen? What will it take to make you move on?  Too dangerous to stay with him, John, whether he’s your Sherlock or just Jeremy.  Can’t watch you die for him.  Terrifying to think of.

            Sherlock hasn’t felt this terrified in a long time.  To his left, just outside the door: the louder  _squeak_ and _creak_ and  _crack_ of ice being compressed underfoot.  Well, then.   This is it.  This is the end of the line. They’ll storm in here and find him; he doesn’t have much in the way of self-defense.  He’ll be dead in less than six seconds.  No, five.  (Might as well be realistic!)  They’re taking their time, though, apparently. Moran’s men are deliberating about whether to bother with every single room of the inn.  Laziness. Cutting corners.  For god’s sake, just get on with it.  Don’t be boring.

            And then the footsteps move away.  Squeak, creak, crack—and gone.

            Oh god.

            They’re ignoring his room.  Oh, Jesus.  Must think it’s empty.  No one listed on the registry.  Idiots. Sherlock picked the lock to get in here for the night.  Do you see now, John?  Having no paper trail just saved his life.

            Never did like playing hide-and-seek as a child.  Relieved.  Still terrified.

            Terrified of Moran’s men.  They could change their minds at any moment—just decide to kill John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade anyway.  Their original boss is deader than a doornail, so why wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t that be revenge?  Why hasn’t Moran made a move like that yet?  If he wants to destroy Sherlock, that’s what he should do.  Kill them all.  Just imagine that.  It’s too cold to think, but imagine the email from Mycroft:   _They’re all dead.  You’ve failed._ Sherlock imagines it and coughs into his hand, swallows, chokes, gurgles, nearly throws up.  Gets a taste of cigarettes, gastric acid, weak coffee.

            Can’t stay here tonight, no doubt about that.  Record-breaking snowstorm or not, it’s time to leave. Jeremy’s proper reply to John will have to wait until Sherlock gets to the next sanctuary.

            He’s sorry, John.  Just so sorry.  Every day away from you reminds him of that.


	5. November 21st - November 25th

* * *

**Safe and Sound**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
November 21st  
  
Dear John,  
  
I miss you.  
  
Okay, that's out of the way now.  I'm writing to you from someplace safe, so you can stop worrying about me. Like I told you, in the chat, Mycroft Holmes finally answered my missives and helped me out of a sticky spot. He set up this sort of extraction operation to get me out from behind enemy lines.  For the sake of trust and transparency, I'll try and explain what happened.  On the way to the rescue rendezvous point, I was forced off of the road by inclement weather.  Thankfully I managed to find lodgings for the night... and found out that a group of Moran's men had followed me.  Felt like something from a spy movie, you know - it's still surreal as hell.  Anyway, they were looking for me.  Hunting me, really.  So I decided not to wait around to be captured.  I got to the rendezvous point without suffering hypothermia or getting shot.  My rescuer was waiting there: she's quite nice, but in a scary way.  
  
Scary how?  She insisted on taking care of Moran's men before we left.  Incapacitated all of them without my help.  To reiterate: scary.  But it makes sense once you hear her name.  Code name?  Dread queen of the Underworld,  _Persephone_.  Spooky.  She told me to call her 'Penny' for short.  So Penny extracted me and escorted me to the nearest safe house.  We just shared hot chocolate; it was good.  
  
Probably the maddest part is that she claims to know you.  Seems a bit young for you, though.  Regardless, Penny says 'hi' and hopes you're doing well.  According to her, you're a topic of interest among the female members of Mycroft's private security force.  Does the name 'Anthea' ring any bells?  (Mythological names are a theme with them.)  What's that doing for your ego??  
  
Since you're caught up to speed with me, let's talk about you.  I want you to know that you've no reason to feel powerless at all.  Your contributions may not seem substantial, but I need you.  Your letters, I mean.  So please write to me and if I'm being stupid about things just tell me to shut up.  I'll listen to you because there's just 'something' about you, too.  You matter to me, and others, John.  
  
Will you please be careful for me?  I don't know what Moran may be planning.  Especially if he finds out about us.  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

**RE: Safe and Sound**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
November 22nd  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Again with the flirting!  First you're putting 'Dear' in front of my name and saying you miss me, then you tell me that you need me and make it out like we're having some sort of illicit affair and Moran is going to catch us in bed together.  Don't think you can slip anything past me - I was trained by the great Sherlock Holmes, as you know.  With that in mind, I'm expecting your proposal any day now.  Please send the engagement ring along by post.  
  
Don't take that the wrong way, I'm just teasing.  (And don't feel obligated to stop.  I'm severely flirt-deficient these days.  For both of our sakes, I only ask that you don't make the mistake of falling in love with me.  I'm rubbish at unrequited love.)  
  
I thought I'd open with that bit of humour because, truthfully, I was starting to worry about you again.  I suppose I'll have to get used to waiting a week or two between emails.  Sounds like you've seen some excitement recently, so I'm glad you're safe and sound now.  I hope you've learned that violence isn't nearly as glamorous as movies make it out to be.  I know you're sick of hearing this, but be careful.  Please.  
  
On an entirely different note, I can't believe you met Penny.  That's the maddest bit of your story, in my opinion, that she should be the one to rescue you.  I met her under different circumstances and I'm not sure I can say I know her that well at all, but I don't think she's all that scary once you get to know her.  Fantastic shot, of course, but very sweet too.  Tell her 'hi' back and that I also hope she's well and that we should have dinner the next time she's in London - or in the country at all.  I'd like to see her again.  
  
Don't get too jealous, by 'topic of interest' Penny probably means that Mycroft's girls, like half of England, have a betting pool going as to whether or not I'm gay.  
  
It's been same old, same old over here.  I'm still seeing Ella, and I'm managing my job just fine.  I don't think I mentioned it before, but I'm working as a GP at a small practice.  Technically I don't need to work at all, not with the money Sherlock left me, but I like it well enough.  Gives me something to do.  
  
Of more personal interest to you, I went for a walk the other night and I took my can of paint along.  I managed to put Sherlock's name back up in a couple of places.  I know it's trivial, but doing that does help me feel better.  Alive.  This time, I'm almost certain that someone was trailing me, even though I couldn't catch a glimpse of them.  
  
I have a plan, though.  I'm going to try to smoke out whoever it is.  Maybe they can tell us something more about Moran.  
  
This is why you should write more often.  I get reckless when I don't hear from you.  Please write back when you can.  
  
John

* * *

**RE: Safe and Sound**  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
November 22nd  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Rereading the first two paragraphs of my last email, I think I was a little out of line.  I'm really sorry.  I don't want to make you uncomfortable or give you the impression that I feel something I don't.  You're worth more than that.  
  
I'm just lonely, I suppose.  I can't seem to connect meaningfully with any of the women I go out with, for example.  And you show up and you're interested in me when I've barely done anything... that's the real ego boost.  But I shouldn't take advantage of your feelings to feel better about myself.  I shouldn't encourage you to flirt with me when I can't requite.  That's cruel, and selfish, and I'm sorry.  
  
Your moronic friend,  
John Watson  
  
PS: Maybe ask Mycroft if he could set you up with anyone, I'm sure he has blokes who work for him too.  Take your mind off me.  
  
PPS: Or you could try one of his girls, if you also like girls.  I don't know if you do but Mycroft has some very attractive women in his employ.  
  
I'll shut up now.

* * *

**RE: Safe and Sound**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
November 23rd  
  
Dear John,  
  
If you've been trained by the great Sherlock Holmes, then you should know that it's poor form to make wild assumptions.  When you told me you weren't interested, I stopped right then and there.  For real.  Of course I'm guilty of making assumptions about you, at the start of it, but I'm not masochistic enough to keep going for no reason.  I don't like saying things that don't matter - I wasn't trying to flirt with you.  So your apology is mortifying and rather unnecessary even if it's lovely in a way.  No one else worries about hurting my feelings!  Novel.  
  
I'm lonely too, John.  Talking to you makes me feel less lonely.  So maybe the words don't matter in  _that_ sense, but you've admitted to liking the attention.  Which hardly makes you 'cruel', I think.  Everyone likes getting attention.  Being recognised.  I guess boosting your ego is an acceptable use of my time.  I'm fine with this arrangement.  Just a thing between friends - we're friends, that makes me glad.  Not to mention, the ring wouldn't be sent by post.  I'd present it to you in person; you still want to meet me, don't you??  (See, this is me playing along and it's fine.)  
  
It's obvious how relaxed I am if I'm willing to devote so many words to faux relationship talk.  To be honest, I'm feeling a bit restless out here.  Wanting more action.  I went into the dangerous thick of things and emerged with a stolen flash drive.  Valuable information.  It's encrypted, no surprise there, but I'm working on it.  Should contain details I need for saving someone's life, figuratively speaking.  Well, perhaps literally.  
  
Do me a favour: even if you don't hear from me, pay attention to the news.  Speaking in riddles isn't my purview, but the surprise will be worth it.  Promise.  
  
As for your recklessness, you definitely sound... better.  More upbeat?  We keep telling each other not to do stupid things and then stupid things happen anyway, but I'm serious:  _don't do that_.  Just don't.  Moran's men are just vicious bastards; if one's following you, stay the hell away.  Let them think of you as not worth the fight.  Please.  Besides, if you don't listen to me, you're going to rack up a few ASBOs and that'll put an end to your rebellious stage.  
  
Your more sensible friend,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

**RE: Safe and Sound**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
November 24th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Well, now I'm embarrassed.  I didn't mean to make a big deal out of something that isn't even there.  So I'll apologise for that.  And of course I worry about hurting your feelings, that's basic human decency.  If none of your friends at home care about how you feel, you might want to find new friends.  
  
I do still want to meet you.  As I said, I have a sofa you can use anytime you like.  Much more comfortable than sleeping rough.  
  
One word of advice from someone who's been there: if you can help it, don't get addicted to the danger.  I know the adrenaline rush from constantly risking your life can be something, but I've been there and probably still am there (my leg only feels better when I'm out of my flat and could potentially get shot by whoever's tailing me) and it really wrecks you.  Find something else to do aside from sitting around itching for more action.  I don't know much about decrypting flash drives but that seems like a good use of your time.  
  
I'll keep an eye on the telly, but I hope I won't see the headline 'daft bastard gets himself mysteriously killed'.  Whatever grand thing you're planning better not involve that.  
  
Now it's my turn to tell you not to worry.  I'm perfectly capable of defending myself against dangerous people.  And like I said, I do get an awful thrill out of putting myself on the front lines.  Part of me wants Moran's men to know that I'm worth the fight, even though the rest of me knows that's a stupid and dangerous and pointless idea...  
  
I did go for a walk again last night.  I didn't vandalise anything this time, so be proud of that.  What I did do was try to catch a glimpse of the person following me, but he always stayed just out of sight.  When I doubled back to chase him, he ran.  He's probably under orders to keep his distance.  
  
We'll see how that goes.  
  
Your terrible role model,  
John

* * *

**RE: Safe and Sound**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
November 25th  
  
Dear terrible role model,  
  
Basic human decency is in short supply these days.  Partially it's my fault.  At this point I've severed so many ties and burned so many bridges with people at home.  I don't even know if I still have friends.  Expect me to need your hospitality someday.  
  
Whatever happens, I don't want to regret it.  Does that make sense?  The way you've mentioned some things - it sounds like you regret it.  Do you regret it?  All that time with Sherlock Holmes?  Maybe not consciously, but still.  I used to read your blog posts. Maybe I don't know anything.  I don't know if I'd trade what I've done so far for anything else, even normalcy, even fewer nightmares.  It feels like I'm the most alive when I'm the closest to dying, as morbid as that is.  Hurts in a good way.  Is that sickening?  
  
I'll settle for this flash drive and endless lines of code, though.  Here's a hint, if you must have one: it's related to something (or someone) that you mentioned a while back.  
  
Your stupid, dangerous, pointless idea... what an apt description.  If you go too far, John, I'm going to do something about it.  I'll call in a favour to Mycroft and have you shadowed by one of his operatives.  Closest I can get to protecting you myself.  Then again, maybe you'd like it too much to have one of Mycroft's girls in charge of you.  
  
'Running away' doesn't fit the stereotype for Moran's men, so I don't know who it is and I don't want you to find out either.  Please?  Don't make me regret reminding you of the danger and adrenaline.  
  
Your reminder not to be stupid,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

            John isn’t at home to receive Jeremy’s latest warning.  He’s already out for his late evening walk, a canister of spray paint sitting, heavy, in the pocket of his jacket; his gun hidden in the waistband of his trousers.  Whatever this is, whoever’s tracking him, it’s going to end tonight.

            That spark of determination is the only thing motivating him to take this walk.  The cane clicking against the pavement sounds like shame, and it brings the weight of the world down on his shoulders again.  He doesn’t feel like this during the day—in the daytime there are buses to catch and a job to do and shopping to get and the buzz of humanity to drown out the _click click click_ that follows him everywhere—but at night the city goes quiet, and he finds himself alone.

            He can’t say what he’s ashamed of, exactly.  He thinks it’s how he’s not handling this as well as he should, because night is when Sherlock’s specter finds him.  Some nights, John’s walking alone when someone stepping by, a stranger, passes a bit too close to him.  He finds himself opening his mouth to apologize preemptively, because Sherlock will barrel right into the stranger without care.  Then he remembers that Sherlock’s not here, and there’s no one to bump into, and the stranger walks by, unmolested, as John stares at the empty space where his best friend would usually be.

            But that won’t happen tonight.  John is on a mission tonight.  He’s setting a trap.

            It’s easy for the “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” tag to stay up in skate parks, but it’s painted over pretty quickly in other public places, so John’s had to get inventive.  Tonight, he’s targeting a wall in an alley that’s a bit out of the way.  Pros: no one will spot him, so he’s less likely to get arrested.  Cons: when his stalker shows up, he’ll be backed into a corner.

            That’s all right, though.  His stalker probably isn’t expecting him to be armed.

            In the meantime, he has to act oblivious, and that he can do.  He’d staked out his target area earlier in the day so he can make a beeline for it.  He glances over his shoulder a couple of times and thinks he catches someone ducking behind a few bins, but it might just be his imagination.  If his pursuer is an assassin, then he won’t be able to resist the setup—but if his pursuer _were_ an assassin, he could’ve killed John half a dozen times over by now.  John rules that out.

            At the end of the day, he just wants a little chat.  Who sent the man, what his goal is in shadowing John.  Something to report back to Jeremy, so he can feel like he’s helping out.

            He’ll help out a different way right now.  After pulling his scarf up to cover the lower half of his face, he takes the canister of yellow paint out of his pocket, studies it.  Michigan brand—like the one used in the case with the Chinese gangsters.  John thought it fitting.  Sherlock would have liked the irony, maybe.

            Listening closely for any other sound, for anyone else, he takes a couple of steps back, lets the cap of the canister clatter to the ground, grounds himself, and begins to paint.  _I BELIEVE_.  He pauses to shake the canister—almost empty—and to check.  He thinks he hears approaching footsteps.  Light.  Someone light.  A woman’s footsteps?  Either way, he has a few seconds before whoever it is reaches him.

            _IN SHERLOCK_.  John stops again to listen.  Whoever it is has done the same—he (or she) is waiting at the entrance of the alley.  Well, if his pursuer won’t make the first move, John will.  But surprise is key here.  Act like everything’s normal.  _H_ —and then his spray paint gives out on him.

            “Damn!”  He tries to keep the cursing under his breath, but at this time of night, everything’s audible.  The paint could be used as a potential weapon, too, to blind, but now…

            “Just give it a good shake, maybe,” suggests the person at the other end of the alleyway.

            John freezes.  He _knows_ that voice.  But it doesn’t make any sense, why would—even so, he calls, “Molly Hooper, is that you?”

            After a moment, his stalker peeps around the corner.  Squinting, John can see that she’s tucked her ponytail into the hood of her sweatshirt.  “Yes,” says Molly, sounding deeply unsure of herself.  “H-hello.  Should I go?”

            “No, no.”  John exhales, incredibly relieved that he didn’t pull his gun.  “What are you doing?”

            “Well, I was following you,” Molly replies, creeping into the alley with him to examine his handiwork.  “You weren’t supposed to know I was there, though, but I guess I sort of ruined it.”  Avoiding his face, she continues, “Um, you’ve gotten loads better with the graffiti, though!”

            “You’ve been following me every night?”

            “Not _every_ night.”  Molly pauses, biting her lip, her hands tucked securely into the pockets of her sweatshirt.  “Just when you’d go out, that’s all.  You weren’t supposed to know.”

            “Why?”

            “Sherlock told me to keep an eye on you.  It was one of the last things he asked me to do.”

            John swallows.  “ _Why_?”

            “Well…”  She looks down at her feet, shuffling them against the pavement, and then back up at him.  “I mean, he knew what was going to happen, and I think he was afraid—and I was afraid, too—that you might… do… something.”

            “Do something?” John repeats, and then he gets it.  “Oh.”  He raises his chin, brings it back down again in an exaggerated nod.  Swallows the word.  “Follow him—follow Sherlock?”  Grimly, she nods, and he stares at her because it had never occurred to him before.  “What would be the point of that?”

            “I don’t know,” she replies, shaking her head.  “You followed him everywhere else.  Before.”

            “Yeah, but that’s _different_.  This is…”  John’s mouth dries out, because he doesn’t really have a word for what this _is_.  He glances up at the sky, away from her face, as if that’ll give him some sort of clue—and then, suddenly, he has it.  The word.  “Hearts break all the time,” he says, almost too matter-of-factly.  “People move on.  They don’t throw themselves off of buildings, usually.”

            Molly nods, her lips pressed tightly together.  “And that’s working out for you, then?  Moving on?”

            “Well.”  John shrugs, his cane tapping against the pavement.  “I’d be lying if I said it was smooth sailing all the time.”  Nervously, he licks his lips.  “But I’ve a new flat now, and a new job.  It’s very quiet, though.  Weirdly quiet.  What about you?”

            “I—well, there are a few of us who are still in trouble.”  She plays with her fingers absentmindedly, and John notices—one of those peculiar little details he’s begun noticing in a post-Sherlock era—that her nails are bitten down.  “People like me and Greg—um, you know, Detective Inspector Lestrade—we’re still being investigated.  My supervisors have been watching me really closely, but I don’t think they want to get rid of me.”

            John leans on his cane, raising his eyebrows.  “You’re just too good, Molly Hooper.”

            She colors slightly.  “Here, let me see that paint.”

            He hands it over to her, and she shakes it a few times, hard, wrinkling her nose, before spraying at the wall.  The can splutters and coughs, but yields just enough paint for her to complete the yellow _O-L-M-E-S_ before it dies for good.  She steps back, pleased with herself, smiling a little.  “That felt good,” she says, giving him the empty canister.  “I can see why you’re still doing it.”

            “It’ll be painted over again in a couple of days,” John says, gesturing at their handiwork.  “Never lasts.”

            Her smile shrinks a little.  “Well, maybe next time we should do something permanent,” she suggests.  “Get a chisel or something and take it to the wall.  Find a way to make the words last forever.”

            “I don’t know if that’s…”  The word “possible” gets lost in his mouth as his eyes widen.  Of course.  Of _course_.  It’s been right here, right _here_ this whole time, staring him in the face.  Hasn’t it?  A way to infuse what he’s missing right back into his life.  Yes.  Maybe this is something like what Sherlock feels when he has one of _his_ epiphanies.  Oh, _yes_.

            “Brilliant,” he says.  “It’s absolutely _brilliant_.”

            “What is?” asks Molly.

            Shoving the paint can into the pocket of his jacket, he hobbles forward to clasp her hand.  “You are,” he replies.  “Look, it was really nice catching up with you.  We should go for coffee soon, I’d really like to, but right now I have to get home.”

            “Oh,” says Molly as John lets her go.  “Coffee sounds good.  I’m free… sometime.”  John isn’t listening.  He hurries down the street as fast as he can with his blasted cane, determined to get back to his flat, his room, his laptop.  “But…”  And he’s halfway down the block when she calls after him, “But what are you going to do?”

            He pauses, turns toward her.  Even weighed down by his cane, he feels lighter than he has in a very long time.  “I’m going to make Sherlock last forever,” he says.

* * *

**RE: Safe and Sound**  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
November 25th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Don’t have much time to talk right now.  Sorry.  It’s late and I want to get an outline down before I get any sleep.  Feels like my head is going to explode, but in a good way.  Do you know what I mean?  
  
Don’t be alarmed, I just have an idea.  You’ll like it, I promise, but I’m not going to tell you what it is right now.  I must sound a bit mad but I think you’ll understand.  Won’t you?  
  
I’ll say this now, though: In answer to your last question, I don’t regret a single thing.  
  
Your raving lunatic,  
John  
  
PS: Don’t worry about my stalker, it was only Molly Hooper.  We’re going for coffee sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in a Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper story that takes place between this chapter and the next, visit ["Presque Vu"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/423534) for a little bonus ficlet. c:


	6. January 11th

* * *

**HOW DID YOU DO IT???**

****John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
to Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
January 11th

Jeremy,

Just heard about the Chief Superintendent and what he was up to.  It was this whole big story on the news.  How did you figure it out??  And I know it was you because they mentioned your name specifically.  Called you an 'amateur detective' so you must be feeling proud of yourself.  You really should, too.  A lot of good people get to keep their jobs because of what you did.

I wish you were here because Greg Lestrade invited a bunch of us out for drinks and I'd bring you along in a heartbeat.  You deserve it.  It's nice to know, and to have actual proof, that we weren't crazy for believing in Sherlock Holmes.

Stay safe,  
John

* * *

**RE: HOW DID YOU DO IT???**

****Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
January 11th

Dear John,

I'll tell you how I did it when you tell me about what you're working on.  It's really not fair, you know.  I've been asking for weeks and you won't even give me a hint.  Please?  Please?? (Now you're making me beg.)

Anyway, enough of that.  It should be obvious how I did it.  Took me longer than ideal, yes, but I finally decrypted that flash drive of Moriarty's.  It won't be enough to clear Sherlock's name entirely - but it's proof positive of someone wanting him framed by the police for that kidnapping last year.  The Chief Superintendent facilitated his arrest and other underhanded dealings in exchange for numerous favours related to money and status.  All I had to do was point Lestrade in the right direction for his investigation.  Consider it a belated Christmas present.

Or maybe that should be said of these attached photos?  Penny's responsible for taking them, and promised me grievous bodily harm if you didn't get to see them too.  So, enjoy.

I wish I could go for drinks.  It's too quiet here.

Your amateur detective,  
J. Sigerson

Attached Files: jeremysleep.jpg, jeremywork.jpg, penny.jpg

* * *

**RE: HOW DID YOU DO IT???**

****John Watson  
to Jeremy  
January 11th

Jeremy,

Whatare those photos?  Did Penny nick your phone when you werent looking?  You'll have to learn to keep your guard up if you're goingg to make a career out of this detective business.  You two both look well although a bit too fashionable for me.  Way out of my leaghue clearly.  Aren't those trousers too tight for all the running around you're doing?

I just got back from the pub.  Greg Lestrade says he's eternally grateful to you for clearing his name If you hadn't found iout the Chief Superintendent was taking bribes, he'd be out of a job.  He also said he spoke to you on the phone which I find really unfair since I haven't and we've been writing for so llong.  Have youforgotten we're practically engaged?

By the way do you think sometthing is going on between Greg and Molly?  I know you're not hereto see them but I'd like a detective's opinion and you're the closest i've got

Why don't we make a deal?  I'll tell you about my project if you give me a call, as long as it's safe.  Maybe talking to someone will make it seem less quiet over wghere you are.  Or we could just do the chat thing again.  I like interacting with you in real time and it's been too long.

Not tonight, though.  It's late and im tipsy and i'll make a fool of myself.  aLready am.  tomorrow?

your slightly drunk pen-pal,

john watson

* * *

            John, you’re too clever.  You must be.  That must be why Sherlock is staring at his mobile phone, wondering about your (brilliant) passive-aggressive suggestion.  What’s the quickest way to pique someone’s interest?  Telling them  _not_ to do something!  Too clever.

            Too dangerous, though.  Many reasons why Sherlock shouldn’t call: perfectly valid reasons.  Dangerous to speak to John in the first place, with or without a heteronym like Jeremy Sigerson.  (Mycroft doesn’t approve, of course.  Sherlock doesn’t care.)  Anyone else would have slipped up by now.  Anyone else would have caved to sentiment, to sheer loneliness.  Dangerous.

            He sighs.  Strokes his fingers over the keypad, a shadow of inputting John’s number.  One of the few numbers Sherlock has willingly memorized, even when he has it on speed dial (just in case).  The number hasn’t changed.  John changed many other things—email, address, employment—but not his phone number.  Maybe John is waiting for a call.  Whether or not he’ll ever get it, he’s waiting for a certain phone call; he doesn’t want to miss it.

            “Hello?”

            Oh, John’s voice.  Like the number, it hasn’t changed, even when filtered through a satellite and a speaker.  Familiar.  Belated realization: he  _did_  call John.  This is happening.  This is not in his head.  Not a sad, pathetic session of  _pretend_  inside of his mind palace.  Truly surprised, Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  On John’s end, this number is coming up as _unknown_.  Sherlock is completely off the grid.  If he hung up now, John wouldn’t have a clue.  John wouldn’t know.  Shouldn’t.  Too dangerous.

            “Is this Jeremy?” asks John.  “I knew telling you not to call would make you call.”

            Confirmation.   _Too clever._

            After preparing himself, which takes 2.6 seconds, Jeremy says, “You’ve resorted to reverse psychology, John Watson?”

            Jeremy Sigerson: higher-pitched, softer-spoken, with a bit of a lisp.  Painfully shy.  Avoids speaking in person if at all possible: thank god for technology.  His pronunciation is correct, but the words form awkwardly in his mouth.  This is someone who spent his twenties sitting in a cubicle, shunning human contact.  Quality assurance for software programming, nothing special.  Dull.  Dull.  Dulling.  A well-rehearsed persona.  (What might Sherlock have become if he hadn’t been inspired by criminology?)

            Should go off without a hitch or any real sentiment.

            John says, “I might be.”  Yes, there’s the slurring.  Much.  Conclusion: John is more than just  _tipsy_.  “So is it Jeremy?”

            “Yeah, it’s Jeremy Sigerson.  Hello.  I hope you don't mind...”

            It’s the least threatening, most disarming disguise.   _Jim from IT_ has nothing on _Jeremy from QA._

            “Can you prove it?”

            John is slightly suspicious—that’s all right.  John’s trust issues don’t extend too far when he’s drunk and talking to Jeremy Sigerson, who reminds him of Sherlock in (mostly) superficial ways.  That’s intentional, the reminding part.  Jeremy was fabricated to get on John’s good side as quickly as possible.  It’s vital.

            “Jeremy, can you prove it?”  John is repeating himself.  So impatient.  And something else: words lilting at the end.  What is it?  Unexpected levity?

            “You’ve been teasing me with your secret project,” Jeremy says.  “It’s been going on for weeks now.  It’s half the reason I’m calling—in your email, you said you’d explain.”

            “And I keep my promises.”

             _Flirtatious_  levity, if Sherlock isn’t mistaken.  He’s never mistaken.  (What is the point of flirtation now?)

            “How do I talk about this without it sounding really stupid...”

            Sherlock rolls his eyes, but Jeremy jumps right into reassuring.  “It’s not stupid, whatever it is.  Tell me, please.”

            “That's easy for you to say.”  John laughs—John’s laughter is easy and familiar.  The lilting becomes more audible when he adds, “ _You_ worship the ground I walk on.”

            Well.

            Jeremy does have those underlying notes of hero worship.  Appealing to John’s ego: shockingly simple.  Necessary.  Pertinent.

            “Oh, shit, no, sorry,” John stumbles over the words, catching himself.  Did he say something rude?  Sherlock didn't notice and doesn’t care.  Still, he can use that.

            “I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t do things unless they’re worthwhile.”  Jeremy is quieter, bordering on embarrassed.   (John should think this is endearing.)  “Ergo, your secret project is worthwhile.”  In the cerebral background, Sherlock thinks that is quite a generous assumption to make.  John has had many awful ideas.  Brilliant ones, sometimes, but loads of awful.  “But if you want me to  _worship_ you, then you’ll have to be thrilling.”

            John’s voice drops lower.  “Oh, I’m _very_ thrilling,” he promises, just like that: unforgivably intimate.  Sherlock doesn’t know why this is happening; to begin with, Jeremy’s flirting functioned as a smokescreen.  Antithetical to Sherlock Holmes.  John wasn’t very comfortable with it, but it removed any lingering doubts about Jeremy’s identity.

            (John, what is the  _point?_ )

“You’re stalling, actually.”

            “Using my _thrilling_ wits and charm.  It usually works on all the girls.”

            Could be worse.  Not as if John will remember much of this conversation in the morning.  And, sadly, Sherlock would listen to anything right now just to hear John.

            “Don’t worry, I won’t hang up on you after the big reveal.”  Sherlock sorts through his thoughts—a few painful truths—and sends one down to his mouth.  “I wanted this too,” Jeremy murmurs.  “Getting to talk like this.”

            “You’re going all sentimental on me,” says John.

            “That happened a while ago.”

            “Sherlock used to say things about sentiment.”  Vague.  Distant.  (Awkward.)  (How does he avoid incriminating himself?)  John moves on from that (thank god), saving them both the trouble.  “You want to know the secret project?  It’s  _him_.”

            Jeremy should seem puzzled, curious.  “Sherlock?  How’s that?”

            “I used to keep a blog about... all of the things we did.  You read the blog, why am I telling you that?  You know that.  Anyway, I’ve decided to elaborate.  Write up the cases properly, including some of the ones I didn’t put in the blog, and... stick them in a book, hopefully.  So everyone can know... Sherlock.  And who he was, and how he was.”

            Going to win an award for overromanticization, John.

            John sniffles once he's finished rambling.  “Sorry.  Anyway, that’s what it is.”

            Obvious, isn’t it?  Painfully obvious.  Sherlock knew all along: ever since the first time John mentioned an “outline.”  Even so, that doesn’t stop the concept of a true biography from being—  “Brilliant,” Jeremy says with genuine admiration.  “It’s a brilliant way to be involved, but without putting yourself in harm’s way.  Maybe people just need a chance to...”  Trails off, sighs.

            Sherlock already has a plan on how to clear his name, once and for all.  Better than what he did with the Chief Superintendent.  Much better.  Sebastian Moran can’t imagine what’s coming.

            “Make sure to hire an editor,” Jeremy teases.

            “Do you doubt my writing prowess?”  Flirtatious again.  Ridiculous.  Irrelevant.  Sherlock feels too warm and he thinks again, viciously,  _Irrelevant_.  “No, it's all right,” John is saying, “Sherlock always said I was rubbish.  Definitely not a professional, at any rate.  I’ll find someone.”

            “Rubbish or not, it doesn't matter.  I wasn’t the only avid fan you had, you know.  You had a way of making people  _greedy_  for more.”

            Wait, was Jeremy supposed to say that?  (No.)  Not fitting the script.  (Sorry.)  Jeremy should be discouraged about his crush, not perpetuating it.

            But John  _is_ flirting with him.

            “Promise me an autograph," Jeremy says, as an afterthought, “and I’ll be the first in line to get a copy of your book.”

            “Deal.  I can’t promise I’ll be done anytime soon, though.”

            “I’ll be waiting all the same.”  The culprit?  Loneliness, perhaps.  Sherlock has a severe case of cabin fever.  He really needs to get out of here...  “Worth the wait, I’d think.  For now, I'll just have to ‘worship’ you from a distance.”

            Trying to make a joke of it, John says, “Wish you could worship a bit closer to home.  Might do some good for my ego.”

            Sherlock needs to go  _home_.

            “My opinion matters that much, John?”

            “You’re good company and I’m—I’m lonely.”  Neither of them find it easy to admit to such things.  Must be the alcohol’s fault.  Never did like it when John went out to the pub.  “Are you still there with Penny?” he asks quietly.

            “Not in the immediate vicinity.  She’s leaving soon, I think.  The code’s been cracked.”  It's much easier to say, hiding behind Jeremy, “I’m lonely, too.”  He shouldn’t keep saying things, though.  He shouldn’t.  “But you’re helping with that.”

            That’s enough.

            “I won’t be helping for much longer,” John mumbles (regret, amusement).  “I’m either going to sleep or pass out soon, I don’t know which.  Probably for the best, because...”  Creaking, shuffling sound.  Getting into bed?  Has he been sleeping enough?  Sherlock is in bed too, unable to sleep.  “Because, I think you’re starting to sound in love with me.”

            No, really: that’s enough.

            Jeremy, alarmed, responds defensively.  “You only have yourself to blame for drinking so much.  I hope you’re lying down, because  _you_ sound about to fall over.”

            “I’m lying down,” John retorts.  “This conversation’s getting out of control fast.  Next you’re going to ask me what I’m wearing.”

            Escalation unintended.  Abort.

            “A purple shirt?”

            “Good try, but those were more Sherlock’s area.  I was wearing a jumper before, but it’s off now.”  John sighs: a rush of air and static.  “Hey, do you know what’s unfair?”

             _Aside from everything?_

            “What?”

            “You’re hundreds of miles away,” John tells him, “and not female.”

            “... Merely saying that is unfair.”

            And John says, “I’m sorry,” while Jeremy is saying, “Some things aren’t meant to be, I suppose.”  Discouragement returns before it’s too late.  Good.

            Long pause.

            “Sorry, I don’t know what’s going on with me anymore.”

            Why is John saying that?  Sherlock hates that.

            “Hey, I never told you to apologize.”  Jeremy is concerned, trying to make amends.  “It’s flattering.  You're flattering me.”   _I’ve missed your flattery.  I miss you._ Sherlock stares at the empty spot beside him on the bed.  Tentatively, he runs his palm over it; he wonders if John ever does the same.  “You’re going to be okay, John.  I promise.”

            John takes his time to formulate a reply.  “There’s something I haven’t told anyone,” he nearly whispers.  “Maybe I’ll tell you, someday.  Maybe you deserve it.”

            “Do I get a hint?” Jeremy asks, and Sherlock wonders if he deserves anything good.  (Probably not.)

            “No,” John says.  “Just maybe someday, if you’re good.”  Faint, very faint: John rubbing at his eyes.  “Keep fighting for him, please.”

            “Of course I will,” Jeremy says fiercely.  Maybe too fiercely.  Dial back a bit: softer, heartfelt, gracious.  “I can live with maybe someday, even though I hardly need the incentive to keep going.”  Even as someone else, he doesn’t know how to fix tears.  “It’ll be better in the morning.  Sleep.”

            John laughs a little.  “It’ll be a hangover in the morning.”

            “And let that be a lesson to you.”

            Hanging up: impossible.  John’s voice...

            “Take care of yourself, Jeremy.”

             _John._

            “Yeah, I plan on it.  Good luck on your project.”

            “And good luck with yours.”

            Sherlock doesn’t hang up.  John doesn’t hang up either.

            “You first, damn it,” Jeremy says with a grin.  “Go on.”

            “Oh, god.  I was waiting for you.”

            “I’m waiting for  _you_.”

            “You called, you hang up,” John declares.  There are rules?

            “Nope.”

            “I’m not going to do it.”

            Even Jeremy thinks this is ridiculous.  “Then I guess we’re stuck like this.  Forever.”

            “They’ll pry this phone from my cold, dead fingers.”

            “Gross.”

            “Hey, Jeremy?”

            “Hmm?”

            “How did you get my number?”

            Sherlock smiles to himself—clever, clever John—then decides to hang up the phone and roll over into the empty space beside him.  Via his mind palace, he listens to John’s breathing on repeat.  Eventually, he falls asleep.


	7. January 12th - January 13th

* * *

**Good Morning!**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
January 12th  
  
Dear John,  
  
Thank god, I'm finally getting out of here!  Mycroft Holmes phoned this AM to tell me about a fresh lead in China, which I'm absolutely going to check out.  Something to do with a hidden bank account, additional fraud and bribery.  Perhaps my code-cracking skills will come into play again?  Either way, it's good news.  Can't believe how far I've come since this started.  
  
Hopefully I'll be able to catch up on sleep while on the plane - I hate flying.  It's painfully boring and the food is always ten shades of terrible.  If I can't sleep, I guess reading is an acceptable alternative.  You should recommend me something; I trust your judgement.  I prefer non-fiction, but whatever works.  Help?  
  
As for your friends, shouldn't that be obvious?  Lestrade and Molly have been a couple for a while, albeit unofficially.  With their respective jobs on the line, facing an uncertain future, they weren't willing to commit.  Now that's not an issue, thanks to me.  I expect Lestrade to ask her to marry him eventually.  That was my advice on the matter.  Life is too short for too much hesitation.  
  
Speaking of advice, my clothes are fine just the way they are.  Amateur detectives don't have much of a dress code, John.  (I like that job title, by the way.  Amateur detective.  Wow.  Makes me feel useful.)  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson  
  
PS:  Remember to stay hydrated to deal with that hangover.  
  


* * *

**I'm Onto You, Young Man**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
January 12th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
China, really?  Big country, lots of cities, lots of people.  A good place to get lost in the crowd, I'd imagine.  Are you that desperate to shake me?  Did I really embarrass myself that much last night?  If something I said made you call Mycroft Holmes and beg him to spirit you to the other side of the world, I'm sorry.  I'm having trouble remembering anything from that conversation aside from what your voice sounded like, and the fact that you managed to squeeze my secret project out of me.  
  
No, I'm joking.  About the scaring you off bit, not the not remembering anything bit.  The fact that it's already four in the afternoon and I'm only just now sitting down to write you should tell you a thing or two about how easy getting over that hangover was.  Please do actually be careful in China, though.  
  
How on earth could you know that about Greg and Molly without even seeing them??  I'm tempted to ask you who you are but it seems like I know more about you than any other person on the planet.  You were all over the news this morning: 'Who is Jeremy Sigerson?' It's the elusive question everyone wants an answer to.  Congratulations, I think?  Not sure how keen you are on fame.  But like it or not, you're not only an amateur detective, you're one everyone's paying attention to now.  
  
As for reading material - you were setting up for this, weren't you?  Well, since the cat's out of the bag, I've attached the first few cases I wrote up for the book.  I'd like you to tell me what you think of them.  Actually, if you could edit them in between cracking codes and seducing handsome Chinese men and generally being James Bond, I'd appreciate that.  Please mark them up.  Be brutal.    
  
Well, not too brutal.  I'd like my ego left somewhat intact.  
  
Your friend who desperately needs more aspirin,  
John  
  
PS: Don't mock the bland filename.  Sherlock used to make fun of my titles so I decided to go a minimalist route.  Too sparse?  
  
PPS: Say goodbye to Penny for me before you go.  
  
Attached Files: case files.docx  
  


* * *

**RE: I'm Onto You, Young Man**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
January 12th  
  
Dear John,  
  
I might be lying about China, but that doesn't mean I don't trust you.  I don't want anyone to follow me because it's more and more dangerous by the day.  I'll be careful, I promise.  If at all possible, I'd feel much better if you never threaten to track me down again.  That was honestly a bit scary.  Stay at home and keep writing, please.  It's so important.  More than you know.  
  
Don't worry about last night.  It made me happy, hearing your voice.  
  
How did I know about Molly and Lestrade?  Well, that's surprisingly simple.  I went and asked about it.  Molly admitted her feelings for Lestrade to me, given that she had no one else to tell.  As for Lestrade, we ended up talking about what we're willing to do to protect loved ones and all of that.  Somewhat of an embarrassing conversation.  Still, they're a perfect match as far as I can tell.  They even have a similar soft spot for children - for the record, I do not.  
  
It must be a slow news day.  Who is Jeremy Sigerson?  I could define myself any number of ways.  I'm someone who wants to help, I've said that before.  No mystery to that.  No charisma to mention.  I definitely won't be seducing any Chinese men (what are you even?) or parachuting into a top-secret installation of evil.  Or whatever it is James Bond has done.  Trying to remember the last time I saw those movies...  
  
Oh, oops, looks like you caught me!  I was craving a sneak peek at what you've written thus far.  Of course, please don't consider my opinion to be the gospel truth.  Maybe I'll just stick to correcting your spelling - you do know about the spellchecker, right?  Built into every word processor??  Red squiggles under the words mean they're incorrect.  
  
Yes, I did skim a few pages before replying - too curious and excited to wait.  I love it already, egregious spelling errors aside.  I love how vibrant you sound when you write about him.  Should I be jealous?  I'm not, though.  I think you need to do this.  
  
Your overworked, underpaid editor,  
J. Sigerson

  
PS: Filename could use more gusto.  Please consider 'SUPER CASE FILES' or 'THE BEST STORIES EVER TOLD'.  
  
PPS:  I will do that.  
  
PPPS:  Feel better, John.  
  


* * *

**RE: I'm Onto You, Young Man**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
January 12th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
I understand. You know no matter how many times you say you're not a martyr or anything like that, you're always putting me first. Seems a bit saintly to me. I'll only start worrying if I don't hear from you, I don't mean to scare you or anything. Otherwise, I'm writing as fast as I can. I'm actually a lot farther along in the cases than I thought I'd be at this point.  
  
I like your voice too. It suits you.  
  
Of course you asked about it! I should have known. No great mystery there after all, you cheater. Good for them, though. Sounds like they're getting on well. Still, you might not want to be pushing them toward marriage so quickly - most people date for years before even getting engaged, and then they remain engaged for a while too. Who knows what might happen even over the course of a year?  
  
Slow news day or not, the public is interested in you. You're not the only one who likes cracking codes and solving puzzles, and now you're a puzzle in yourself. Everyone wants to know where you came from - I'm honestly surprised one of those friends you mentioned hasn't stepped forward to give the scoop. Or a relative. Do you have any of relatives left? You mentioned your mum before, but is there anyone else?  
  
Anyway, some people are saying that you're Sherlock's reincarnation or something. Morning talk shows have actually been hounding _me_  for a couple of days, trying to get my opinion on the whole Chief Superintendent thing and on you. I've been turning them down. Don't want to accidentally say anything that might endanger you.  
  
James Bond would be seducing Chinese _women_. I was just trying to spin the tale to suit you. I'm an author now, it's what we do. And do you really not remember the movies? When you get back, we should watch a few. We could have a Bond night.  
  
Of course I know about spell check! I just tend to type these cases out rather fast, that's all, and I barely proofread them for fear I'll decide to scrap the whole project altogether. So you'll be a big help, I can already tell. I've attached three more cases to this email if you have some extra time.  
  
You're free to be jealous, it's very attractive. Everyone wants to be wanted. Still waiting on your ring.  
  
Your wellspring of talent,  
John  
  
PS: I hope this file is titled to your satisfaction. Didn't adopt your ideas about capitalisation though. Your predecessor would not approve of all caps in the slightest.  
  
PPS: Have you left yet?  
  
PPPS: I will. Well I do already. But thank you. Stay well yourself. Please.  
  
Attached Files: the incredible unbelievable super amazing case files.docx  
  


* * *

**RE: I'm Onto You, Young Man**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
January 13th  
  
Dear John,  
  
Doesn't that say something about the world we live in? The disparity of opinion between selfish and selfless actions. Prioritising someone else's welfare is considered 'saintly' when it shouldn't be. It's kind, yes, and a kind of common sense. Not deserving of the hyperbole. I don't want you to get hurt because of me, that's all. (I keep saying this mostly for myself, because sometimes I want to ask for help and that would be disastrous.)  
  
At least you're much less reckless now than when we first began writing to each other. What changed? The book?  
  
I don't like my voice, it's too feminine. But I like that you like it.  
  
Missed opportunities are worse than failure.  
  
Thank you for not talking to the media. I'm not interested in providing higher ratings for them - obviously a sore subject after what happened to Sherlock. My old friends don't know all that much about me. I kept my head down, didn't try to stand out in a crowd. As for my online friends, well, I'm very secretive. They know about my passing interest in photography? Eerily enough, they've compared me to Sherlock Holmes before. I'm just a hipster, not a genius.  
  
Distant relatives in Norway, never met any.  
  
If you want to watch the James Bonds, then we can watch. Fair warning, though: paying attention to the screen will be difficult when I have you in the room. You're a celebrity in your own right, Mr Wordsmith, and about to become more of one. For a good cause. I can't wait.  
  
That said, you're not allowed to scrap the project. Seriously it doesn't matter that 'pompous' has a 'u' in it. The way you write, which is engaging and suspenseful, is the most important part. Since I'm supposedly Sherlock's reincarnation, you must listen to me. I'll do the editing soon.  
  
I'm jealous. Check the post regularly.  
  
Your biggest fan,  
J. Sigerson  
  
PS: All right, that many adjectives is going too far. Have you no shame?  
  
PPS: Waiting for my flight. Debating alcohol for the flight.  
  
PPPS: You're welcome.  
  
PPPPS: Rereading this, I noticed how we're holding multiple conversations simultaneously. Everything branches and branches until it's not so quiet (empty?) in my head anymore. No other way to describe it. I'm thinking about things you said or might say.  
  


* * *

**RE: I'm Onto You, Young Man**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy  
January 13th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Look at you, waxing philosophical on me! I think you just don't want to admit to your own saintliness. Honestly, selflessness is a quality I've come to value because between Afghanistan and working with Sherlock I saw a lot of selfish people doing terrible, terrible things to each other. Don't downplay it. And I know you don't want me coming after you but if there's anything I can do, if I can send money, food, clothing (of the reasonable sort, not those impractical trousers you seem to prefer) or anything else, just let me know.  
  
I haven't given it a lot of thought. Maybe it was the book, maybe not. I think writing you has definitely helped. I told you before about the whole living vicariously thing. Keeps me grounded.  
  
My opinion is clearly the only one that matters here. You should really give yourself a little more credit.  
  
And there you go again with the sweeping generalisations. You're on a roll today aren't you?  
  
I'm just trying to be a shrewd businessman. I'm not going to be giving anyone any interviews until the book comes out. No, just kidding, although I suppose I will have to make the rounds when it's finished. If it ever is. Even so, I can't say I'm too fond of the media at this point either, and I certainly won't be telling them anything about you. I suppose, considering what you're trying to do now, it's good that you kept to yourself. Fewer people to endanger.  
  
What's a hipster?  
  
Paying attention to the screen is mandatory during Bond night. Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr Sigerson.  
  
All right, you win. I won't scrap it... yet. I did decide to go back and do a little editing though. Got rid of all the red squiggly lines that bother you so much. Thank you for the compliment, but I'm really not much of a writer. I am glad to hear that you're enjoying it regardless. Sherlock's reincarnation or not, I trust your judgement.  
  
I thought sending the ring through the post would be too tacky?? Not that I'm complaining. Better that than nothing at all.  
  
Expecting a proper proposal any day now,  
John  
  
PS: Toned down the adjectives. Is this to your liking? You're a hard man to please.  
  
PPS: Be responsible about it. Wouldn't want to get sick all over Mycroft's private plane.  
  
PPPS: You know, I can't follow up 'You're welcome' with anything. You win this round.  
  
PPPPS: That's really lovely, actually. Maybe you should be the novelist. You've got these complicated thoughts branching out in your head, and I'm sitting here just waiting on your next bloody note. But have a safe flight, and enjoy your freshly-renamed work of nonfiction.  
  
Attached Files: the adventures of sherlock holmes.docx

* * *


	8. March 3rd - April 20th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, makokitten announced on her [Tumblr](http://makokitten.tumblr.com/) that we would be taking reader-submitted letters to Jeremy and John, and we were absolutely blown away by the response. Thank you so much for all of the fanmail you sent them!
> 
> And to those of you who missed the announcement or are following the story exclusively on AO3, don't worry - there will be another chance to send these characters mail.

* * *

**Chat with Jeremy Sigerson**  
March 3rd  
  


 **John** : Jeremy, hello.

 **Jeremy** : Hi.

 **John** : I keep getting all of these messages.  
  I'll admit that I'm a little disappointed that they aren't from you.  
  It's good to see you.

 **Jeremy** : Actually I was going to say that I've been inundated with messages too. That's what I get for using such an obvious email, now that my name's in the news.  
  I'll have to write you more often to balance it out.  
  How are you?

 **John** : Same as ever except I'm writing like a wild man.  
  I have an agent now, did I tell you?

 **Jeremy** : No, you didn't! You're moving up in the world.

 **John** : Well, I sort of floated a few cases around to a couple of close friends, and Harry - well, she's in sales, she knows all sorts of people.  
  Your edits were immensely helpful, by the way, thank you.

 **Jeremy** : Good. I knew going to school would be useful someday.  
  Hey, are you honestly surprised to be getting messages?  
  I know I wasn't your only fan.

 **John** : Not the only one, no. But the most persistent.  
  :)  
  I am a little surprised that people are still sending me mail, though. I haven't been good with replying.

 **Jeremy** : When I really want something, it's hard to stop me.

 **John** : I've noticed, that's why you're travelling around Europe fighting crime isn't it?

 **Jeremy** : Among other things, yes.  
  So, reply to a few people and tell them about the book you're writing. They'll be excited.

 **John** : I've been told I shouldn't say anything more about the book but maybe I can drop a few hints.

 **Jeremy** : That works. Does that mean I won't get any more sneak previews?

 **John** : No, you're an exception.  
  I'd be lost without my editor.

 **Jeremy** : Oh.

 **John** : Too cheesy?

 **Jeremy** : No. Not at all.  
  You're still flattering me!

 **John** : Well I gather that wherever you are in the world, you're probably not being flattered enough.  
  So I'm doing my best to make up for the deficit.

 **Jeremy** : As a matter of fact, the messages I've received are very flattering indeed.  
  Seems you've got competition.

 **John** : Oh no.  
  No matter what, I was the first, wasn't I?  
  That has to count for something.

 **Jeremy** : Oh, that's true. I'll give you that.

 **John** : How are  _you_??

 **Jeremy** : Tired, but I'm mostly relieved to hear you're doing well.

 **John** : Still can't tell me where you are, Mr Bond?

 **Jeremy** : I'm closer than you think - but that's all I'm going to say!

 **John** : I bet you're sitting outside my flat watching me type this right now.

 **Jeremy** : I like your jumper.

 **John** : You should come inside. It's raining out there.

 **Jeremy** : A little rain won't hurt. Very refreshing.

 **John** : You sure? I'll put on some tea.

 **Jeremy** : Oh, you drive a hard bargain.  
  I'm sorry but I can't.

 **John** : I know.  
  Someday?

 **Jeremy** : You can count on it.

 **John** : Well I should go an  
  oops  
  I should go and answer this mail  
  You should to your many fans.  
  You should  _tend to_  
  what have you done to me??

 **Jeremy** : You'll be fine. No lasting effects, I think.  
  I'll talk to you later?

 **John** : Please.  
  I miss you.  
  I mean you sending letters  
  You know what I mean.

 **Jeremy** : I miss you, too. And I mean more than just the letters - I don't know if I can miss someone I've never met but  
  I really should go now  
  Have a nice night, John.

 **John** : Good night, stay safe.

* * *

**Still Believing**  
  
221Believer  
to John Watson  
February 26th  
  
Dear John,  
  
It would mean a lot to me and all the others on your side if you could attend a short protest against the media's attack on Sherlock Holmes. If you can't attend, could you please help spread the word online? #believeinsherlockholmes #moriartywasreal  
  
~221Believer  


* * *

**RE: Still Believing**  
  
John Watson  
to 221Believer  
March 3rd  
  
Hello,  
  
Thank you very much for your letter. I’ve been trying to keep my head down lately, I’m sure you can understand why. I probably shouldn’t attend your protest, and I’m no longer updating the blog so I can’t spread the message online very well, but I’m working on something else which will tell everyone the truth about Sherlock.  
  
Tell your friends not to worry. I still believe, and so should they.  
  
John Watson  
  
PS: I like your online handle. It’s very clever.  


* * *

**Hi!**  
  
Kelly H.  
to Jeremy Sigerson  
February 28th  
  
Hi!  
  
Not sure when you'll get this, considering you're trekking around the world and all, but I thought I'd send it anyway.  
  
Can I just take an opportunity to say what a wonderful thing you are doing! I've never believed the press about Holmes, but as I live in tiny little Kiwi land (New Zealand, if you didn't get it), I can't do that much. I've put booklets out around my school, joiined in on online conversations, but only those who believe him would read that, right? You, however, are risking your life, devoting yourself to it, for honesty and justice. It's a bit like what Sherlock does, isn't it? Though apparently he didn't go around catching murderers for that side. He found it fun. But at least he was doing good at the same time, eh? The cops should realise that and get a life, in my opinion. I've seen Donovan's comments on John's blog.  
  
Wow, did I really just go from praising you to dissing NSY? I have an incredibly short attention span.  
  
Anyway, I read about you online while I was trolling Holmes haters forums. I felt you needed a little worshipping, so I found your address and started. :D  
  
Did you ever meet Holmes? It seems like you're doing a lot for a man you've never meet. Did you know a victim in one of his cases? Or something like that? It makes more sense than just reading his website.  
  
Welp, that's all I can think of for now.  
  
Kelly.  
  
PS Do you have a Tumblr? Could be good for your fans (Tumblr-based, mostly) to keep track of what you're up to.  


* * *

**RE: Hi!**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to Kelly  
March 3rd  
  
Dear Kelly,  
  
Thank you for taking the time out of your day to write to me. Your nice comments are very much appreciated. The last thing I ever expected to find in my inbox was fan mail, but here we are. Where do I begin?  
  
No, I never had the privilege of meeting Sherlock Holmes. I don't think that I would've survived the encounter - can you imagine him just reading you like an open book? If he figured out my life story, I would've died of embarrassment. Seriously. Even given another chance, I'd have to pass.  
  
Intimidating, that's what he seemed like. I'm easily intimidated.  
  
To be honest, I suspect Sherlock cared more about the people around him than he was willing to admit. I've seen for myself how important it is to establish some emotional distance from 'the work'. Otherwise it starts bleeding into your every waking moment, eating away at you. Causes you to feel very bitter about the injustices of the world. Once that happens, it's difficult to stay focussed and objective. I hope that makes sense.  
  
I'm merely a fan of Sherlock's, much like yourself, and I dealt with the shocking news of his death by talking with like-minded people. Then I had something of a mid-life crisis and turned into the real-life version of James Bond (according to my trusted source on James Bond-related things). It's still absolutely bewildering if I sit down and think about what happened to me. And, trust me, none of it deserves to be idolised. There's so much pressure and danger involved.  
  
As for Sally Donovan: no comment. I need all of the good karma I can get.  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson  
  
PS: I do have a Tumblr, actually, but I haven't used it in a while. Just too busy, other things on my mind. You're not missing much: who cares about my obsession with bokeh?  


* * *

**Fwd: [no subject]**  
  
John Watson  
to Jeremy Sigerson  
March 7th  
  
Jeremy,  
  
Woke up this morning to find this email in my inbox.  I read it once and while it seemed a little off, I didn’t think there was anything too suspicious about it until I saw the name.  Sebastian ‘Marselles’ – too similar to Moran to be a coincidence?  Or am I just paranoid?  
  
Either way I don’t think I’ll reply.  I’m sending it to you just so you know to be careful.  I don’t like the sound of ‘things getting interesting’.  
  
Your resident conspiracy theorist,  
John  
  
Forwarded message:

> **[no subject]**
> 
> Sebastian Marselles  
>  to John Watson  
>  March 7th
> 
> Good morning, John! May I call you John? It's only that 'Doctor John Watson' seems a bit stuffy and formal. ...Damn, one sentence in and I'm already getting off track.
> 
> So, I gotta tell you, my mates and I were massive fans of your work with Holmes. Hell, I'm still a fan! And it's a real pleasure to have a chance to talk to the man behind the blog and the screen. ...Although, technically, it's still through a screen - but you get my point.
> 
> We all admire you in some way, you know - some of us a bit grudgingly, but it's still a sort of admiration. Or... well, nevermind. Maybe it just depends on your own, personal perspective of things. The people he (and you) put behind bars probably don't think that he's all that amazing. My last boss, phew, he was a real mood-killer of a guy. Anyway, just wanted to say hello, and I'm looking forward to seeing what you do next. Hang in there, John. You never know - things may start to get really interesting.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I apologise if this is a bit choppy. Can't say I went to bed last night, I'm running on fumes. Would've waited until after I'd had some sleep, but I wanted to send this. Not sure why.
> 
> But, thanks.

* * *

**Florida Believes in Sherlock**  
  
Lori  
to Jeremy Sigerson  
March 4th  
  
Mr. Sigerson,  
  
Hello, I'm not really sure how to write this, but I guess this is a thank you note of some variety.  
  
And also a question.  
  
How can I help?  
  
I heard about what you did recently, the business with that Chief Superintendent, and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had no small number of fans here in the states, and all of us who still believe in him are glad to see someone taking action. I don't have very much to offer, it's just myself and some friends, but we can't imagine you'd do something as amazing as that and just stop, so and we'd like to do anything we can.  
  
You don't have to respond to this or anything, I'm just a fangirl, and I'm sure you're busy, but thank you very much for what you're doing.  
  
And if you ever need a contact in Florida, we'd be glad to help!  
  
~Lori  
  
(I've attached some photos of a Believe in Sherlock chalking campaign we did a bit back. Some people got angry, and some thought it was political, but it got people talking and helped us Sherlockians find each other. :) I just thought it might encourage you with whatever you're doing!)  
  
  
  
  


* * *

**RE: Florida Believes in Sherlock**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to Lori  
March 12th  
  
Dear Lori,  
  
 _I'm_ the one who should be thanking you for your letter and generous offer. So, thank you very much! I didn't realise news about me would travel across the Pond so soon. Immensely flattered to hear that.  
  
Please, rest assured, I don't plan on stopping in the new future. I've got plenty more of James Moriarty's criminal network to uncover, unravel, and take down once and for all. Yes, that's a melodramatic way of putting it, but it's true. Unfortunately I can't go into too many details, but great things should be coming down the pipeline soon. Stay tuned.  
  
If I ever find myself in Florida, I'll let you know. I've never been. Perhaps I'll go on holiday after everything is taken care of it. Is Florida a nice place for a holiday? Especially with a friend??  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson  
  
PS: Those are some wonderful photos. Thank you, again, for the encouragement. And the word 'Sherlockian' - that's a new one. I like it. I bet Sherlock would've liked it too.  


* * *

**Dear Doctor Watson**  
  
Rachel St.  
to John Watson  
March 27th  
  
I first just wanted to say I'm sorry about everything that happened with Mr. Holmes. I know he couldn't have been a fake, and its shame that people will blindly believe things without doing research! But that's why people have to work harder to get the truth out.  
  
I'm very sorry you stopped posting on your blog too, I understand why of course, but I truly loved reading your posts. It was so different from anything I have ever read before! I check back to your blog every day just in case.  
  
There was something I was wondering, will you ever tell your side of the story? I understand if you never want to say anything about everything that happened and went on, but I'm sure people would listen. Anyway even if you don't ever want to do that, maybe one day we can hear more stories or you could go back to your blog! That would be so wonderful.  
  
I hope things are looking up a bit more now Dr. Watson.  
  
Sincerely, Rachel  
  
PS. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.  


* * *

**RE: Dear Doctor Watson**  
  
John Watson  
to Rachel  
March 29th  
  
Dear Rachel,  
  
Thank you so much for your kind words. They mean more than I can say, they really do. I’m touched that there are still people believing in and remembering Sherlock after all of this time.  
  
I don’t have plans to come back to the blog anytime soon. My life isn’t as eventful nowadays so I don’t have as much to write about. You should probably save yourself the effort of checking. If I do decide to start writing in it again, I’m sure you’ll hear about it one way or another.  
  
I am working on something else though. I can’t tell you what it is, but since you’re one of Sherlock’s fans I think you’ll like it. Well, I hope so. It has to do with telling my side of the story. So keep an eye out for that.  
  
Things are looking up now, I’m much better off than I was a few months ago. I have a new project and a new friend. Funny how that can turn your life around.  
  
Thank you again, and please keep believing.  
  
John Watson  


* * *

**just**  
  
Paula J.  
to Jeremy Sigerson  
April 2nd  
  
stay safe. take care of yourself.  


* * *

**RE: just**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to Paula  
April 5th  
  
Dear Paula,  
  
Please don't worry about me. I have someone waiting for me back home, and I'm not going to disappoint him.  
  
Yours,  
J. Sigerson  


* * *

**Dear Dr John Watson**  
  
Kirsty Stapleton  
to John Watson  
April 10th  
  
Dear Dr John Watson, I wanted to tell you that even though Sherlock Holmes didn't find Bluebell, my Mummy got me a new rabbit. It didn't glow in the dark but I didn't mind because she said she had met you and Mr Sherlock Holmes and she said he was very very clever. He found out something important that nobody else could ever figure out but she can't tell me yet because she thinks I'm too young even though I contacted him on my own and everything. We believe. Lots of love Kirsty Stapleton aged 9  
  


* * *

**RE: Dear Dr John Watson**  
  
John Watson  
to Kirsty  
April 11th  
  
Dear Kirsty,  
  
I’m sorry about Bluebell, but I am glad to hear that you have a new rabbit.  I hope this one is just as good a pet as Bluebell was.  Does it have a name yet?  
  
Sherlock and I did meet your mum.  She is also clever and you’ll have to trust her when she says that you aren’t old enough to know everything that happened.  In a couple of years I’m sure she’ll tell you the whole story.  You seem to like animals – this story involves a dog, but not a very nice one.  
  
Thank you for believing.  Say hello to your mum for me.  
  
Sincerely,  
John Watson  


* * *

**Offer**  
  
Gregory Lestrade  
to Jeremy Sigerson  
April 17th  
  
Mr Sigerson,  
  
I'm deeply grateful to you for your work on the Sherlock Holmes case. As you know, it resulted in my being reinstated as Detective Inspector, and affirmed my faith in my friend. I've been thinking of how I might repay you, and I hope I may have found the answer.  
  
I can't recall if you mentioned it during our phone conversation or if John Watson might have told me, but I know that you're currently unemployed. If you don't want that to be the case, it doesn't need to be. I'd like to offer you a position in the police service. There's been a gap in our ranks since Sherlock's death that I think you could step into a good deal better than most people. Sherlock didn't have an official job title or even receive payment for his consulting work with us, likely because he didn't want to be limited by the regulations that bind officers of the law. But if you haven't got similar objections, we'd be honoured to have you. I've negotiated for this position to pay you a salary rather than a per-service rate, should you accept. We'd consult you as needed, but likely quite regularly, on criminal cases that have an information-technology element. (With the deductive skills you've demonstrated in the Moriarty case, though, I imagine you'd pretty soon find us consulting you on a more general basis.)  
  
Lastly--and this may be quite unnecessary to note, so disregard if it is--I want to emphasize that you almost certainly needn't avoid this offer out of fear of the law. John once described you as a 'nomadic hacker,' which sounds a bit like someone with no great desire to get involved with the police. When I started working with Sherlock, he was dealing with some things that send numerous people to prison each year, but we managed to get him on the straight and narrow without having to go to that extreme. That's what I consider successful police work. We're here to help and protect people, not to put them in prison whenever possible. I can't speak on this matter for every officer of the law, of course, but that's my view, which is the only one that really matters when I'm making a new hire.  
  
So that's it: I'd like you to come and work for me. I hope you'll consider my offer. Let me know what you think, in any case.  
  
Sincerely,  
DI Gregory Lestrade  


* * *

**RE: Offer**  
  
Jeremy Sigerson  
to Gregory  
April 19th  
  
Dear Detective Inspector:  
  
I had to read your email more than twice to understand it fully. Simply put, I can't begin to express how much of an honour it is to receive a (rather irresistible) job offer from a distinguished policeman like yourself. Especially when I'm being compared favourably to Sherlock Holmes at the same time. Sorry, but that just blows my mind.  
  
But I'll be honest: I can't give you an answer one way or another today. It's a lot to think about when I have so much on my plate already. Again, I'm bowled over by your candour and praise for me. And a steady paycheque would be more than welcome when I finally do get back home. John might not allow me to crash on his sofa for ever, no matter what he says.  
  
There are numerous popular misconceptions about me, however. I'm not really a 'hacker' or whatever else. My last job involved computer tech - and I know a thing or two about cryptology - but breaking into other people's stuff doesn't interest me. Not usually, I mean. Right now it's crucial for learning more about James Moriarty's illicit activities.  
  
As far as I know, I've never broken a single law willingly. One time when I was younger I walked out of a shop without paying for something, but that was an accident. I went right back as soon as I noticed my error. That's not considered an arrestable offence, is it?  
  
I still can't believe this has happened. Thank you so much.  
  
Sincerely,  
J. Sigerson  
  
PS: Your acting ability could use some work. Refer to the above for a better example. I suppose Molly broke down and told you? I should have expected that. Don't say a word to John or you WILL regret it.  


* * *

**Chat with Jeremy Sigerson**  
April 20th  
  


**These messages were sent while you were offline.**  
  


 **Jeremy** : There's so much I want to say but can't  
  Forgive me, John


	9. April 22nd - June 9th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Just a quick note: as a general rule, whenever there are large chunks of time left out in John and Jeremy's correspondence (such as between chapters five and six, and in the previous chapter), it's safe to assume that they're continuing to write each other. This time, however...

* * *

**Cryptic Message**

John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
to Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
April 22nd

Jeremy,

I have to confess I’ve no idea what to make of the message you sent me.  Some poor excuse for a detective’s assistant I am, eh?  I’ve been puzzling it over ever since I received it this morning. 

I’m sorry I’ve been absent recently.  I got the first copy of the manuscript back from my editor a couple of days ago and have been going over it nonstop since then.  She wants me to make so many changes, and I don’t know how much I’m willing to change.  I have to send it back soon, though.  I’m told that ordinarily I’d have more time, but the powers that be are really trying to rush publication because they want to have it out in June.  That’s when the anniversary is, you know.  Of Sherlock.

So I’ll send the book back to my editor and she’ll send it back to me and once we’ve reached a stalemate it’ll get sent to the printers.  It’s likely going to be a long battle and I doubt I’ll emerge unscathed.  If I don’t make it, I leave all of my case notes to you.  And my jumpers.  They’d be big on you but that’s the sort of look people go for these days, isn’t it?

This is all a joke, in case you couldn’t tell.  I doubt I’ll have to defend the integrity of the manuscript with my life.  The funny thing is that Sherlock wouldn’t even care.  He’d take a look at all that red ink in the margins and turn up his nose.  Except in the case of the grammar mistakes, of course, then _I’d_ be the object of his scorn.

But he’s not here.  You’re not here, either, which is disconcerting.  Apparently you’ve a lot to tell me, and now you’ve really got my interest because I thought you’d been pretty open with me.  I know your favourite bands, that you’re a vegetarian, a vague outline of your family history… so unless you’ve some dark secrets in your past, I’m completely at a loss.  Please write back soon so I’m no longer in the dark.

Your worker bee,  
John 

PS: Don’t forget to eat.  I couldn’t see too much of you in your last photograph, but the parts I could see looked thin.  Stay healthy, and above all be careful. 

* * *

**Very Funny**  

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
May 4th

Jeremy,

I think we’ve established that I begin to get a bit testy after not hearing from you for two weeks?  If not, I’m establishing it now.  This is your two weeks’ notice, Mr Sigerson. 

No, I’m sure you’re just busy.  I’ve been busy, too.  I think my editor and I have finally reached an impasse on ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’, which is the title of the story about Irene Adler.  She kept pressing me for details and I told her that I wasn’t sure how much I could say given the parties involved.  And I’m not sure how much Sherlock would want said… I suppose that doesn’t really matter, though, considering.

Anyway, I gave in and incorporated some of her suggestions, but not all.  Would you believe that it’s a better story now?  Turns out editors do know how to do their jobs.

But that’s all that’s been going on in my life.  Work and more work.  The book’s nearly finished.  It’ll be sent to the printers soon and entirely out of my hands.  I can’t say whether I’m relieved or not.  The interviews begin after that, and I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit anxious.  More condensed human interaction than I’ve had in a while.  I’ll make it through fine, though. 

If you’re not too busy saving the world, I’d love to hear from you.  A short note, a sentence, a word, anything.  Just let me know you’re doing all right.

Your Z-list celebrity,  
John 

* * *

**A Bit Panicked**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
May 11th

Jeremy,

So.  Three weeks.  Not that I’ve been counting. 

It would help if you could confirm you’re alive.  You know, if you have a moment.  I’ll even say please.  Please, Jeremy, tell me you’re alive.

Are you trying to make me beg?  Because if you are, you’re succeeding. 

Your mother hen,  
John

* * *

**Still Panicked (But A Little Less So)**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
May 20th

Jeremy,

I went out for coffee with Molly Hooper today.  She looks well.  She’d gained a bit of weight when she was stressed about her job but she’s lost it all and is now positively radiant.  She and Greg are still going strong, I thought you might want to know.  I barely even needed to ask her, she was smiling at everything and was dripping love all over the place.

We talked about a lot of things.  You were one.  She’s also concerned that she hasn’t heard from you and suggested I ask Mycroft if he knows anything.  I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me before.

I called Mycroft.  We only spoke for a minute – I honestly don’t think I could stand speaking to him for any longer, I haven’t forgiven him – but he said he didn’t know anything.  I’m choosing to be optimistic about that.  You said he’d know if you were dead.

So, you’re not dead.  Not that Mycroft knows, anyway.  It’s a start.  If you’d be willing to provide some details, maybe specify exactly how not dead you are, I’d appreciate it. 

Your eternal worrywart,  
John

* * *

**Alright**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
May 24th

I’ve tried to be cute about this.  I’ve tried to pretend like everything’s normal.  I’m not sure I can do that anymore.

Please write.

John 

* * *

**This is going to drive me mad**  

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
May 31st

I keep getting emails to this account.  They’re all spam.  None of them have been from you.

I should be focused on promoting the book but I’m not and I can’t be.  Just a word, Jeremy.  That’s all I’m asking. 

God damn it.

John

* * *

**(no subject)**  

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 8th

It’s happened again.

I knew it was going to, didn’t I?  That I’d be left alone again.  And I was fool enough to let myself get roped in anyway.

Is this how it’s always going to be?  I don’t know, I can’t answer that.  Maybe I’m destined to ride the coattails of great men for the rest of my life and watch as they destroy themselves in ways I can’t prevent.  Maybe that’s just how it’s going to be.  Did we talk about fate?  I don’t even remember.

Book comes out in ten days.  You know, in case you’re not dead and you want to pick up a copy.

John

* * *

**(no subject)**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 9th

I realised that last letter was sort of harsh if you’re still alive, so I wanted to write another one.  I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour but I’ve decided that I just want to say this:

There’s something I want to tell you.  I think I said before I wanted to tell you something related to Sherlock but this has got nothing to do with Sherlock and everything to do with you. 

Please phone me.  I’ll be waiting. 

Yours,  
John

* * *

            Sherlock Holmes has never seen a more despicable sandwich in his entire life.  The bread is so stale, it's like sandpaper on his tongue.  He gags after the first bite, decides not to attempt a second.  (Bread like that should be a federal crime.)  The mere idea of chewing and swallowing: impossible, unforgivable, just not on.  Nauseated, watery-eyed, he uses a napkin to rid his mouth of the offensive chunk.  There are a few people staring at him already—is he causing a scene?—attracting too much attention?—this café is small and you know how word travels—but he just doesn't care.  He doesn't care.

            The aftertaste makes him gag and gurgle, too.  Getting shot through the heart by one of Moran's men would be merciful by comparison.

            He laughs at himself, short of breath, and closely inspects the rest of the sandwich.  The corned beef (because that's how they make Reubens in New York) (if the menu is to be believed) glistens up at him with excess gristle and fat, offending him further.  Is that cheese or melted plastic? Dubious at best.  And the sauerkraut, oh,  _god_.  Don't get him started on the sauerkraut.

            At the time, spending his last five dollars on food seemed like a good idea.  He'd forgotten to eat in a while.  Forgotten to eat again and John told him (repeatedly) to stop forgetting—Sherlock and Jeremy both.  Sherlock before, that is.  Before the fall, that's when John told him.  They haven't spoken since the fall, now it's all Jeremy.  Isn't that right?  Jeremy's a more recent development, but he brings out John's caregiving nature just as easily. Right.

            However, Jeremy hasn't been allowed to speak to John in very many weeks.  With the communication blackout (security reasons), Sherlock has been on his own to take care of himself.  (All because of a hole in Mycroft's security team.)  He's the pinnacle of self-sufficiency.  Obviously.  Too dangerous to seek anyone else's help.  (A spy!  Like one of John's movies!) Can't expose John to endgame, additional tragedy.

            "I hate you," he tells the sandwich.  Here it is, the source of the world's unfairness.  "I hate you so much."  Jeremy's higher, boyish voice is strangely hilarious to him.

            The window beside him radiates warmth, but it's nothing compared to how hot he's already feeling.  (Just a bout of flu, John would say.  Get into bed before you hurt yourself.)  Outside, hardly diminished by the evening gloom, herds of people roam back and forth on tightly delineated paths that go from nowhere to nowhere.  Useless.  Boring.  Innocent, but stupid.  They have no idea.  No idea.  They're this close to anarchy.   _This_ close—he's drawing lines on his napkin with an almost-inkless pen.  They're lucky they aren't on anyone's radar.

            He tells himself he's being paranoid.  He tells himself to shut up.

            His iPod goes silent, finally, its battery dead.  Harsh noise of the deli (eating, ordering, cooking, bleating) rushes in and surrounds him.  Cut adrift in it, he feels his thoughts melt and spread like taffy in the sunshine.  It'd be so easy to stay here and never stand up again.  Until he's forcibly removed from the premises, of course.  There's always that.  Vagrancy: bit not good, Sherlock.

            Really starting to look the part of an aimless drifter.   _Smelling_ it, too. Most recent shower consisted of swiping his armpits and forehead with a dishcloth and cold water.  Didn't even take the sizzle out of his fever.  There's no time for anything else when he has to keep moving.  He wants to be the hunter—not the hunted, not again.  He's seen enough of the inside of this jungle.

            His iPod is dead, and his mobile phone has precious little power remaining.  He could reply to John's emails, tell him not to wait up. Something short, sweet, unassuming.  Something to believe in for once.  He stares at his phone until it goes blurry, one finger away from turning it off.  If John senses that Jeremy's in trouble—and he has good instincts, he's so good—then what if he tries to seek him out?  What if he gets involved again?

            And then Sherlock receives a text message when he shouldn't.

             **Hello Mr Holmes, lovely weather we're having.**

            —Is it?  It can't be.  Moran doesn't beat around the bush like this.  To be honest, Sherlock would've been dead by now.  No question.  So it can't be him.  Who else, then?  Who else knows the biggest secret?

            Squinting miserably at the other patrons reveals nothing.   _Friend or foe_ , he thinks, pressing the keys (sluggishly).   _Show yourself to me._

             **It's Sigerson now.**

            A prompt reply:  **And I'm Rebecca.  Charmed, Mr Sigerson.**   Rebecca: a female name, therefore fitting of the feminine tone.  Possibly fake.  Clearly willing to play along.  Willing to play this game...

             **How did you get this number?**  Sherlock demands.

             **I know how to make my way in the world.**

            Oh.

            While not  _impossible_ , it's got to be highly improbable.  More than eight million people live in this city—how did they find each other?  From this angle, he must resemble a starving artist with faded hair and clothes too heavy for the temperature.  He's good at disguises and living vicariously; no one else has even come close to suspecting.  Not even John Watson.

            Then again, she always saw right through him.

            **What do you want?**

             **You.**

            Jesus.  Might as well.  There's little else for him here.

            He replies, surrendering,  **Come and get me then.**

            She looks different—different enough for him to notice, but not to throw him off.  Minor cosmetic surgery (smart), shorter hair (he liked it longer, but she's still growing it out), and a looser and flowing style of dress (not as business sharp as he remembers).  She's no longer a dominatrix, just a singer for a jazz club.  Small-time, it seems, but she likes it that way.  Still pampers herself with expensive skin creams, anything to reduce her scars. She's haunted, and he's a ghost.

            She sits down across from him.  This is all very strange.

            "Hello, dear."

            The dated look of her, the situation and the setting—he wonders if he should call her Daisy.  Her voice certainly sounds enough like money.

            "You look well for a dead woman," he says, forcing a smile.  Painful for his dry, cracking lips.  Licks them.  Faint taste of blood.  Why do they bleed if they're already dead?

            "I wish I could say the same for you," Irene tells him.  At all once, he realizes that she's worried about him.  Why is she worried about him?  What's the point?  "Let's get you somewhere safe."

            He nods (gratefully, he has to admit), upsetting his sense of up and down, which doesn't stop him from getting onto his feet.  He takes one step away from the table and his vision goes oily, then speckled, and then black.


	10. June 11th - June 13th

* * *

**hello dr watson**

Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
June 11th

i’m just writing to let you know that your friend jeremy sigerson is still alive and you don’t have to worry  
congratulations on your book i just got it on my kindle  
hopefully it’ll be good for a laugh i could use one

regards  
rr

* * *

**RE: hello dr watson**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 11th

Who the hell is this? Where is Jeremy?

John Watson

* * *

**RE: hello dr watson**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 11th

My book isn’t out for another week.

John Watson

* * *

**RE: hello dr watson**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 11th

I swear if you’ve hurt him you’ll wish you’d never been born.

John Watson

* * *

**i’m not sure i like your attitude dr watson**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
June 11th

jeremy is asleep six feet away from me he is fine  
well not fine exactly he’s ill but i had a doctor see him and he’s on antibiotics so he should recover soon  
dont worry about the doctor she’s a trusted friend and won’t tell a soul he’s here

you say the book isn’t out for a week like that would make it difficult to obtain an advance copy  
i have friends  
getting your book was about as difficult as guessing jeremy’s password

he really likes you in case you didn’t know

regards  
rr

* * *

**RE: i’m not sure i like your attitude dr watson**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 11th

How do I know I can trust you?

John Watson

* * *

**for god’s sake**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
June 11th

i should be the one asking you that dr watson i haven’t cursed or threatened violence against you have i  
jeremy’s taste in men has always been rubbish you should see the footballers he crushed on in university thank god he was too shy to ever say hello  
honestly

if you must know i’m jeremy’s cousin rebecca and i’ve attached a picture of him sleeping i know you can only see the top of his head and his arm but it should be enough to convince you i’m not lying  
he has distinctive hair

regards  
rr

Attached Files: i am not a liar dr watson.jpg

* * *

**I Almost Believe You**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 11th

Jeremy doesn’t have cousins.  Distant relatives in Norway that he’s never met, that’s all.

But that’s definitely him.  Who are you?

John Watson

* * *

**recovering our wits a bit i see**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
June 11th

dug pretty far back in the archives for that one didn’t you dr watson  
13 january if i’m not mistaken  
you’re better than i thought

i’m not lying though i am his cousin he was protecting me  
i was his first project  
sherlock is his second

regards  
rr

* * *

**Stop Doing That**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 12th

What do you mean, ‘his first project’?

John Watson

* * *

**no**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
June 11th

i suppose you could say my taste in men has always been rubbish also  
i needed to disappear and he helped me cover my tracks so now i owe him

he’s staying with me  
it’s safe here

regards  
rr

ps isn’t it getting a bit late over there?? it’s late here so i’ll answer any other questions in the morning

* * *

**Other Questions**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 12th

Rebecca,

You said you were his cousin?

You also said he was ill, what’s wrong with him?

John

* * *

**wrote that up last night did you? i hope you slept**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
June 12th

on a first name basis now are we john

yes jeremy and i are cousins  
kissing cousins actually  
don’t get jealous not since we were twelve he’s gay now  
that’s not my fault though i am an excellent kisser so it wasn’t me who put him off girls

we know for sure he’s got a nasty case of strep throat probably a couple of viruses too  
his immune system just collapsed from running around too much i think  
he was starving when i found him

he’s better today his fever is down and he just had some soup and a multivitamin  
he tried asking for you but it came out more like ‘jksksxjjxxkk’ so i told him to stop  
i’ll keep you updated

regards  
rr

* * *

**One More Thing**

John Watson  
to Jeremy  
June 12th

Rebecca,

Thanks for the information.  Might want to scale it back a bit actually.

Where are you?

John

* * *

**nice try john**

Jeremy Sigerson  
to John  
June 12th

i take my constructive criticism very seriously so no more information for you

jeremy says he will call when he feels up to doing so

regards  
rr

* * *

             John gets the call the following afternoon.  He knows it must be Jeremy because it’s a restricted number—who else would call him on a restricted number?  Not Harry, not Molly, not his agent.  No one.  He answers the phone with a knot in his stomach and his heart in his throat.  “John Watson.”

            “John?”

            Jeremy’s voice: fluttery, high, cracking, and far too hoarse.  John nearly sobs with relief.  “Oh, God,” he says.  “Oh, my God.”  And then, not knowing what else to say: “You sound _terrible_.  You shouldn’t be calling me.”

            Jeremy’s laugh devolves into a coughing fit.  When he recovers his breath, he says, “Had to.  Rebecca said you were being difficult.” 

            “She said _I_ was being difficult?” John tries to sound light, joking, but he feels like his insides might melt.  He sinks into one of his kitchen chairs, the sandwich he was preparing utterly neglected on the counter.  He hasn’t eaten anything substantial in a couple of days, but food will have to wait.  “Jeremy, your cousin is without a doubt one of the most frustrating people I’ve ever spoken to, and that’s counting my editor.”

            “You should hear the things she said about you,” Jeremy replies.

            “What’d she say about me?” John asks, but Jeremy’s either coughing or laughing into his hand—it’s very muffled.  “Jeremy, what’d she say?”

            “Don’t you _dare_ ,” calls a barely audible female voice. 

            “I’m sorry, John,” Jeremy says at last, gasping for breath.  “I’m at her mercy.”

            “Yeah, all right,” John grumbles, but he’s smiling because Jeremy’s alive and he’s laughing and his prickly cousin was probably tickling the living daylights out of him just then and he’s _alive_ to be tickled and to laugh and to cough, and that’s one of the most amazing things John has ever known.  “Well, tell her I say thanks for keeping you alive but that she shouldn’t read too much into it because she’s still incredibly unhelpful.”

            “I’ll tell her.”  Jeremy shifts—still in bed, because John can hear the sheets rustling along with him.  “She’s not all bad, John.  We’re going to a party tomorrow.” 

            John furrows his brow.  “A party?  Is that safe?”

            “In a manner of speaking,” says Jeremy.  “We’re going to make a proper Bond night out of it.  I think you’d be proud.”  As if sensing John’s skepticism, he adds, “I feel much better than I sound.  Don’t worry.”

            “I’m going to worry.”

            “Please don’t.” 

            “Not a chance.” 

            Jeremy sighs.  “I’ll be fine, John.” 

            John licks his lips nervously.  “Mm,” he says, feeling jittery.  “Look, Jeremy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you—I talked to Molly about it when we met up for coffee, but you kind of dropped off the grid after—anyway, something your cousin said reminded me of it.”

            More rustling.  Jeremy’s sitting up.  “What is it? Is it the thing you mentioned before?  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wanted to reply to your emails but I couldn’t—”

            “You were ill,” says John, cutting him off before he can start panicking.  “Well, you’re still ill, and you’re preparing for your—your Bond night, so I don’t want to be a distraction.” 

            “You’re not.” 

            “I’d like to think I am,” John says, not as smoothly as he’d like.  “Just a little.” 

            A pause, then Jeremy concedes, “You are a little bit of a distraction.”

            “I thought so.”  John leans forward, setting his elbow on the table to brace himself.  “We’ll make a deal.  I’ll tell you if you get through your Bond night unscathed.” 

            “You mean ‘when.’”

            John smiles, but that can’t quite quell the nervous shifting of his insides.  “I believe I do.”  And then, adopting a more doctorly tone, he says, “Get some rest.”

            “I’ve been resting since Sunday,” Jeremy complains.  “Rebecca won’t let me do anything else except slurp chicken broth.  She’s confiscated my _laptop_ , John.”  He coughs again.  “It’s like she’s chopped off one of my arms.” 

            “Sounds like she knows what’s good for you.”

            Jeremy sighs.  “Whose side are you on?”

            “The side that sees you through this alive.”

            “Oh.” 

            The ensuing silence stretches on a bit too long.  John says, “Take it easy, Jeremy.” 

            “All right,” Jeremy says softly.  “You should eat something.”

            “How’d you know I hadn’t?”

            “Because.”  Jeremy yawns.  “Eat.”

            “You’re just stalling so you don’t have to hang up, aren’t you?”

            “Yeah.”

            John swallows.  “So am I,” he says.

            Another long silence would have followed except that Rebecca cuts in again.  John can make her out a little better this time.  She has a very distinct New York accent, the kind you’d hear in a movie.  “Jeremy, my phone bill—”

            “All _right_ ,” says Jeremy.  “I have to go, John.”

            “Go on, then,” John says.

            “I will.”

            “I’m waiting.”

            A brief pause.  “Okay goodbye,” Jeremy rushes, and then he hangs up the phone.  John listens to the click and the silence for a bit, and then he realizes that he’s pressing his ear to a silent mobile and sets it down on the table.

            “I’m in over my head,” says John, pushing himself out of his chair.  He dropped his cane on the floor when he sat down and stoops to pick it up, wincing.  “Again,” he adds, easing upright and limping back to the counter where his half-made sandwich waits for him.

            “I just hope you know what you’re doing, young man,” he says to the sandwich.  Then he says, “I am talking to a sandwich,” which makes him think that, yes, perhaps he really needs to eat something after all.


	11. June 14th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're incredibly sorry for the delay in updating this story. The best laid plans often go awry, especially when real life gets in the way. Anyway, we're back, and incredibly flattered by the comments and attention this story has received during its unexpected hiatus. Thank you so much for your patience. A few quick notes:
> 
> [Texts from John and Sherlock](http://textsfromjohnandsherlock.tumblr.com/), which effectively functions as a prequel to this fic, has been finally completed. Although The Sigerson Letters stands alone just fine, you may be interested in reading Texts to get the full story; the easiest way to do that is by clicking [this link](http://textsfromjohnandsherlock.tumblr.com/tagged/textsfromjohnandsherlock/chrono) and browsing the posts in chronological order.
> 
> Irene's POV in this chapter (yes, we get a new POV for a bit!) makes casual reference to the events of _[The Duplicitous Detective](http://archiveofourown.org/works/545330/chapters/970570)_ , a sister story set within the same universe (what we call "extended Texts!verse") that will eventually catch up to and collide with The Sigerson Letters. Reading TDD is also completely optional. Just know that if Irene alludes to "that other Holmes" or someone named "Sherrinford," that has to do with the events of TDD (and, more specifically, _Elementary_ 's Sherlock).
> 
> Warnings this chapter for violence and allusions to past abuse. And that's enough chatter. Enjoy the update!

* * *

**Been A While**

Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
to John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
June 14th

Dear John,

Would you do me a favour?  Regardless of whatever you’re doing right now, whatever you’re thinking about, I want you to take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, and then let it go.  Focus on inhaling and exhaling at steady intervals like that.  Do it for as long as it takes to feel more relaxed.  I know you’re worried about me – rightfully so – but I want you to try and relax for me.  Are you doing it?  Just breathe.  Relax.

No more sense of dread.  No more imaginary tragic headlines.  I promise: I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t leave you alone.  I don’t renege on my promises.  Print this out and frame it if need be.  Keep breathing.

Yes, I know, my behaviour lately hasn't been very reassuring.  It’s why, effective immediately, I won't be leaving you out of the ‘loop’ anymore.  You’re going to hear about my activities and future plans within a reasonable amount of time.  I’m sorry for driving you just about mental before.  It’s not like radio silence did much for my peace of mind either.  Please forgive me.  I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t.

So like I mentioned, I’ll be attending a party tonight – supposedly it’s a birthday party – In the hopes of learning more about the state of Moran’s network from someone in the know.  It could amount to nothing, but I expect it to be educational.  I do have a plan; believe it or not, it’s a good plan.  And if you’re wondering, I don’t feel ill right now aside from a slight sore throat and cough.  Not too much of an annoyance.

How do you feel?  Better?  Have you regained your appetite?  Are you excited for the release of your book?  Rebecca managed to acquire an advance copy of it somehow.  (No, I don’t know how she did it.  The woman is a mystery.)  I want to give it a thorough read as soon as I can.  It seems much longer than I expected it to be.  I like the title change to ‘The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes’, too.  Remember when you asked me to be your editor for a while?  That was fun.

Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow I’ll phone you for sure and give you an update.  Then you can finally tell me that important thing you were being so cryptic about.  Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.  You’ll need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for all of your upcoming book signings! 

Truly yours,  
J. Sigerson

* * *

            “Our friend Jeremy Sigerson,” Irene says, looking up at Sherlock Holmes over her tablet, “is a sprightly correspondent, it seems.”

            Sherlock’s scowl is priceless.  “Don’t read my outbox,” he snaps, snatching the tablet from her hands and stalking back into the bathroom.  “That wasn’t meant for you.”

            “If you didn’t want me reading your email, you would have changed the password,” Irene calls after him, but hot water is already hissing through the pipes as Sherlock washes the dye from his hair, and he can’t hear her.  Knowing that, she mutters, “Only fair, dear.  You guess mine, I guess yours.”

            Three days’ rest and regular eating has done Sherlock Holmes a world of good.  There’s some color back in his cheeks, and his eyes are no longer bright with fever, as they were when Irene found him in the delicatessen.  His voice has returned to him, too, although occasionally his sentences are punctuated with a rattling cough he can’t quite shake.  He has enough energy now to get restless, to want to move, and spent a lot of time today pacing her flat from end to end, which drove her mad.  ( _And you two insist you’ve nothing in common_ , she thinks, remembering how the other Holmes in New York City has a tendency to do just the same thing.)

            Eventually she managed to convince Sherlock to rest for a while, since they have a busy night ahead of them.  She knows that he slept because she checked in on him occasionally while she started on her makeup and pinned down her hair, but apparently he spent a little time composing a love letter to John Watson when she wasn’t looking.  “And don’t argue,” she says to herself, holding her nails up to the light.  French manicure, had it done this morning.  Professional.  Clean.  “It _is_ a love letter.  Everything you’ve written him drips with admiration, and that’s nothing compared with what he’s written _you_.”

            When Sherlock emerges from the shower, freshly ginger, Irene sits him down and takes a hairdryer to his head, brushing his curls into submission.  She also insists on contouring his brows and gelling back his hair—in other words, making him look thoroughly unlike himself.  She then evicts him from her vanity bench, and he stands by quietly as she finishes applying her makeup, either nervous or running over every detail of the plan in his head.  She notices that he still has enough mental energy to spare on watching her line her lips.

            “Being a woman is so complicated,” she sighs, and it’s something like a joke but he doesn’t understand.  She explains, “You got off with a little bit of eyebrow pencil and some hair dye.  I still have to—well, here.”

            She slips her arms out of her robe and lets it fall around her waist, then leans forward, hiding her breasts with her shoulders and arms before he can see enough of them to deduce anything.  Almost immediately, she scolds herself for being unreasonable.  There’s nothing to see that he hasn’t already seen.  Where her breasts are concerned, nothing has changed since Karachi—since _London_.  (Except her.)  She tells herself to get over it.  There’s nothing wrong with them, no visible marks or scars, no lingering handprints that show where they’ve been touched.  Not like her skin elsewhere, which bears the evidence of tortures suffered and survived.

            “Do my back,” she says, reaching forward for her concealer and a foam wedge.  “I want to wear something that shows skin tonight, but I don’t need anyone staring for the wrong reasons.”

            He obliges.  His hands on her back are steady, not trembling.  The last time he dared touch her was so long ago.  She sighs again, although she does not mean to.

            “I know what you’re thinking,” she says to him, but she’s only talking aloud to fill empty space.

            Sherlock does not pause.  “What am I thinking?”

            “Well, typically, an exposed _neck_ is considered a gesture of submission, of vulnerability, because you’re displaying your weakest part.”  She shifts forward farther to rest her chin on her hands and to give him a better angle for his canvas.  “I don’t think of my neck as the weakest part of me anymore, Sherlock Holmes.”

            “Mm,” says Sherlock.  “That’s a mistake that could get you killed.”

            “You know what I mean.”  She crosses her legs and casts her eyes at him over her shoulder.  “You’re probably the only person who does.”

            He’s almost finished now—lower.  She doesn’t even know how visible her scars still are, generally speaking, even without the makeup.  She rubs vitamin E cream on them every single day to make them fade, and lotions to soften them, but she never looks.  She only feels them under her fingers and wishes they would peel away, like scabs.

            It hardly matters, though.  She’s not talking about her back, not really.  There’s something else, some other part of her that’s weak down below the surface, and it’s brown and rotten and dark.  She sometimes imagines it bleeding out through the old scars, seeping out and sticking to her clothes.  (She recalls Sherrinford leaning against her, and wonders how he could stand it.  Granted, she wonders how he can stand to be close to her most of the time.  She never asks, though.  That would mean admitting that she can’t stand being close to herself, most of the time.)

            “I don’t feel particularly vulnerable right now, even though you’ve got all of my scars at your fingertips,” she says, mostly to herself, as he puts the finishing touches on, dabs her dry.

            “How do you feel?” he asks, and finally—disappointingly—his hands are gone, and there’s a click as he caps the concealer.

            Irene pulls her robe back on and stands up.  “Like I could kill a tiger,” she tells him.  “Come and help me with this dress, the zip can be tricky.  Wig comes last.”  She smirks, and the force of it resonates throughout her, vibrating down to her toes.  “And then I’ll be ready.”

* * *

            The only way into the mansion is through the front doors.  It’s not that much of a setback.  Could be far worse, he thinks.  In a way, it’s preferable: he’s tired of sneaking around in the shadows.  He doesn’t want to deal with ten-foot-high fences, closed-circuit cameras, and/or canine patrols.  _Disguises_ , on the other hand, allow him to be creative and find clever ways of blending into a scene.  (For example, about a year and a half ago he helped to expose a group of deadly arsonists by pretending to be a pizza deliveryman.  (Ridiculous idea, really, but brilliant in its own way and perfect in its execution; John commended him for it.  Of course, John first had to berate him for taking so many risks.  (But the fact remains: commendation.  John’s approval is—well, it’s not a _rarity_ , not at all, not when he has heard it all before.  Even so, there’s something about every word of it that’s like a telepathic butterfly kiss on

            “Wake up,” Godiva hisses.

            Sherlock refocuses on the impatient doorman in front of him.  Except—he isn’t Sherlock.  He hasn’t been _Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective_ , for more than a year.  Sherlock is dead, damned, done for and done in.  In other words: extinct.  Also: Sherlock would never voluntarily attend one of these elite parties.  The atmosphere, even ten feet from the front doors of the mansion, is unmistakably high-class and decadent.  There’s a sickly, slippery sheen to everything, like scum floating on a pond.  It's why the relatively innocent Jeremy Sigerson also wouldn’t be appropriate as a guest tonight.  Jeremy wouldn’t survive in there—honestly, he’d be eaten alive.  New York City’s high society is overrun with ambitious, self-serving, blood diamond-wearing savages.  Undoubtedly they’d cannibalize a soft target like

            Godiva steps on his foot.  Hard.  With her very pointy heel.

            The doorman’s eyebrows lift even higher.  “Sir?  I asked you your name?”

            Suddenly the entire plan, every last aspect of it, seems doomed to failure.  The party, the people, _his target—_ unreachable.  What is he doing here?  When is this going to end?  When is he going to get to go home?  He has paid his dues already, hasn’t he, has he _not_ , and yet he must crawl on his belly through the scum and glitz if he has any hope of succeeding.  Tonight’s success may or may not allow him to end the war with Moriarty’s leftovers.  He doesn’t know what will happen.  Anger burns a hole through his stomach, releasing acid, curdling his throat.  This isn’t fair.  Nothing about the war has been fair.  Then again, life has never been fair, not to him, so why is he bothering?  He wants to know why he’s still doing this, John.  He wants to know why you’re still waiting for him.  (Stop it.  Stop this, Sherlock.)  And you are waiting, yes, for your _miracle_ , whether or not you realize it, you’re waiting and Sherlock is dead so that doesn’t make any sense, and he doesn’t know anything, he’s going to vomit all over the doorman’s expensive shoes he can’t identify, he needs to stop this RIGHT NOW—stop the self-sabotage, stop thinking, stop breathing if it comes to it.

            He forces himself to exhale.  Godiva is staring at him.

            She turns to the doorman and starts to say, “You’ll have to excuse him, he hasn’t been feeling up to snuff lately—”

            Inadequate, she wants to say.  He is inadequate.

            So he smiles a smile that gleams like cubic zirconia.  “You can call me Basil,” he says loudly, now that everything has stopped and is reduced down to nothing.

            _If you’re going through hell,_ Basil thinks, not caring whom he’s quoting— _keep going._

            The doorman’s brow collapses, scrunches in.  Seems like he doesn’t recognize the name.  Too bad.  On the plus side, he doesn’t turn Basil away immediately; he examines the guest list with one meaty finger pressed to his lips in contemplation.  The elements of Basil’s appearance—tightly combed hair, newly minted suit, self-assured body language—say that he’s worth the benefit of a doubt.  Even Basil’s odd spaciness can be explained: recreational drug use, a fact of life around here.

            He belongs in this scene.  If the doorman refuses to see that…

            “Do you got a _last_ name?” asks the doorman, tapping the guest list.  Exercising the miniscule amount of power he has.  What a surprise.  “I looked twice and I don’t see any ‘Basil’ listed anywhere.”

            “I’m afraid you won’t be finding him in there,” Godiva chimes in, with silver eloquence and a local accent.  Calculated yet spontaneous, she lays her hand on the doorman’s nearest arm.  His bicep is so thick and muscular—nearly bulging out of its sleeve—that a well-aimed punch could decimate a party crasher if need be.  He tenses up, ready to push her away, but the fragrance of her perfume is disarming by design.  “Speaking _of_ , you won’t find me either…”  Her smile never fails to be believable no matter how shamelessly she’s lying through it.  It’s made even brighter by the blonde hair that frames it.  “My name is Godiva Norton, and this is my friend Basil, who _will_ behave himself as long as I keep him on a short leash.”

            The doorman is somewhat stunned by her introduction.  He shuffles the pages of the guest list, clears his throat, and says, slowly, “ _Miss_ Godiva Norton,” as if he’s never seen a woman before in his life.

            “The pleasure is all mine,” Godiva purrs.  “Now, about our names and this list of yours, do you think you could do us a small favor?  It’d be a shame if we came all this way only to be turned away _now_ , don’t you think?”

            To his credit, the doorman isn’t completely seduced.  “Miss Norton, if you aren’t on Mr. Spade’s guest list, then I really can’t—”

            “I heard from a very reliable source that today is Mr. Spade’s birthday,” she says, her hand still on his arm.  “Mr. Spade and I met briefly at my club—I like to sing, he likes to listen—and I thought I might sing for him tonight.  Privately, if he’d like that.”  It’s a convenient lie.  She tilts her head at Basil, who holds up a sturdy paper gift bag with tangles of ribbons spilling out of it.  Everything is shades of red: passionate.  “These are our birthday gifts to him, to be vetted by his most excellent staff.”

            It’s the entry fee—in a way, it’s the secret word.  Godiva’s insider knowledge, gleaned from various sources, is invaluable here.  Almost anyone can get into one of Spade’s parties if they pay tribute to him.  He’s that much of a narcissist.

            Finally, guided by protocol, charmed by Godiva, the doorman relents.  “Mr. Spade does like it when people remember his birthday,” he confirms, then reaches out to take the gift bag from Basil.  “I guess if you aren’t going to cause any trouble, then I’m willing to vouch for you two.”

            “Oh, oh no,” Godiva says quickly, pressing down on the doorman’s arm.  “The contents are extra _ord_ inarily fragile, sir.  Can’t someone else look them over?”

            The doorman hesitates, his hand frozen in midair.  “Miss Godiva, I have to check out everyone and everything that plans on passing through these doors.  Mr. Spade’s policy makes it very clear—”

            “A _woman’s_ touch would be far more ideal, is all.”  Godiva’s eyes flick around, shrewdly inspecting the other members of Spade’s staff.  “How about her?  Over there, the redhead, the one wearing those costume cat ears.  She looks to be gentle enough.”

            “But—”

            “Please?  It’s not that I don’t trust you, I promise.  You’re just so, mm, forceful… I bet you don’t even know your own strength.”  Godiva drags her fingertips over his muscles, down his arm.  “One touch and my precious gifts would fall to pieces before you, just like I would.”

            “Oh.  Uh.”  The doorman clears his throat—once, then again.  “Well, that is…”

            Godiva pouts at him to seal the deal.  “I’d die of shame if they were delivered to Mr. Spade in less than pristine condition.”

            “Miss Norton, please, it’s going to be fine.”  He lays one of his sweaty hands over hers.  Disgusting.  “I’ll take care of it, so don’t worry about a thing.”  He looks over his shoulder, searching for the redhead with the cat ears.  “Amber!” he barks at her.  “Get over here and help our guests through security!”

            In the entryway, Basil is stopped by security personnel wielding hand-held metal detectors.  He’s told to empty his pockets, which contain nothing more than a few flecks of lint, a set of house keys, and a generic asthma inhaler.  Nearby, shielding herself with the hostess named Amber, Godiva frets about handling the gift bag with as much care as possible.  Amber pokes around the crimson ribbons and tissue paper dubiously—and then _gasps_ when she discovers what’s hidden inside.

            “Are these for real?” Amber whispers.  “Mr. Spade is going to lose his mind…” Amber has a folding knife discreetly strapped to her upper thigh, hidden by her sleek black dress.  The blade is about four inches long.  Basil pretends not to notice.

            “Definitely real,” Godiva replies with a knowing look.  “I know what he likes.”

            “He loves his collection more than most anything,” says Amber, gently closing the gift bag and returning it to Godiva.

            “The _nerve_ of some people,” Basil says, once Godiva is beside him again.  He brushes off his dinner jacket, clearly irritated, while Sherlock makes meaningful eye contact with Irene.  “You just waltz on through, no problem at all, while I’m treated like the rest of the cattle.  It’s discrimination, honestly.”

            “Oh, Basil, you’ll live,” Godiva says, sighing at him, sighing with relief.  “You’ll live.”  None of Spade’s staff had the opportunity to discover the false bottom of the gift bag.  That would’ve made things rather complicated.

            “I’m ready when you are,” he grumbles.

            “Then let’s get this party started.”

* * *

            The real Godiva Norton looks nothing like this.  Granted, Irene hasn’t seen her in years, so she doesn’t know what Godiva looks like _now_ , but she always had about six inches on Irene, and Irene expects _that_ , at least, hasn’t changed.  Her skin was darker than Irene’s, and that won’t have changed either.  Godiva always wore her black hair short, trimmed close to her head, just a little bit of growth; Irene always loved the rough texture of it under her fingers.  In fact, Irene loved all of her very dearly, and she set that love aside a long time ago and went on with her life.

            The Godiva that Irene wears tonight has the voice of an American socialite, the legs of a pornography star, and long, flowing blonde hair.  Irene’s taken great pains to pin the wig to its cap, and the cap down to her head, because you never know when you might get a little bit shaken up.  And she wants to play a somewhat convincing blonde, so she lightened her brows with matte powder and penciled them in with a brown that’s several shades off from their actual color.  She used brown mascara on her lashes, and curled them.  Her eye shadow sparkles gold, lips are pink and glossy, cheeks also pink—red is more Irene’s color, but she’s not that woman tonight.  She is easier to approach than that woman.

            Even so, she walks into the party like Spade threw it just for her, in her five-inch heels and her black dress that scoops low in the back and the body she inhabits, which glows with confidence and bronzer.  It’s what the real Godiva would do, were she here, were she in the right mood.  That woman had a way of owning a room when she wanted to, and of standing to the side, quietly radiating intelligence, when she didn’t.  Irene wonders what’s become of her.

            (Irene wonders what’s become of herself.  Irene wonders if she can pull this off.  It’s been such a long time.  Irene wonders, and then she stops wondering.)

            Basil ambles in Irene’s wake with his hands in his pockets, perfectly happy to let her bask in the partygoers’ curious stares.  Their distraction allows him to survey the pit of vipers she and he have entered, to count the doors and windows, to notice which of the guests are actually camouflaged security.  Given all of the hurdles at the door, Irene’s willing to bet that more than a handful of these people aren’t what they seem.

            And there are quite a _number_ of them to comb.  The main party space is not a ballroom, per se, because no one on this side of the Pond, in a mansion this modern, would have a ballroom, but it’s a large multipurpose space that serves a similar function: kitchen and bar area at one end, home entertainment center (not currently in use) at the other, plenty of room for mingling in between.  There’s even a little area set up by the speakers, which pump out brassy jazz music (he must think he’s so high-class, our Mr. Spade) for dancing, but most of the guests on the floor are just standing there and swaying at each other even though it’s now late enough in the evening for the real fun to begin.

            The entire floor teems with human activity, and that’s not to say anything of the guests who’ve trickled outside to the patio, or loiter on the stairs.  But deconstructing the danger they present is Sherlock’s primary concern, not hers, not right now.  She’s looking for opportunity.

            Sherlock is about to say something in her ear—no doubt pointing out that the waiter several feet to her right is packing heat, yes, she _knows_ —when she marches up to one of the guests and breaks into the conversation that he’s already having, hand outstretched.  “Hello,” she says with a voice like wind chimes.  “Oh, forgive me, I just couldn’t help myself.  I’m such a fan of your novels; I just loved that profile they did on you in the _Times_.  Godiva Norton.  Yes, it _is_ a pleasure.”  She tosses her long, wavy hair back over her shoulder, and three of the men previously engaged in conversation with her new author friend fall in love with her instantly.

            After chattering with them for no more than three minutes, Godiva repeats herself, and then again, moving on to other groups, other flashy guests.  Spade’s showing off.  Some of these people regularly frequent her club, particularly the artsy types, and even though they don’t recognize her now she hasn’t forgotten just how to push their buttons.  Basil follows her, completely at ease, but most of the time she forgets to mention him during her introductions, and no one cares enough to ask.  He’s rendered himself effectively, and charmingly, invisible.

            But Irene is capable of multitasking, and as she makes the social rounds she keeps tabs on whose eyes are upon her.  There’s a man with thick-framed glasses watching her from his perch on the stairs, where he’s trying to talk with a couple of art dealers.  Trying, only somewhat succeeding.  Begins a sentence, catches a glimpse of her, trails off.  How terrible, to be so afflicted.  Eventually, he is able to wrench his eyes from her and return to talking.  Not afflicted enough.

            “That’s Spade,” Sherlock says petulantly while they’re in transition.  As if Irene hasn’t seen him before.  As if Irene isn’t the one who knows him.  You infuriating man.  “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

            “No,” she replies, scanning the room.  “I want him to introduce himself to me.”

            Sherlock tries to follow her gaze, figure out what she’s after, and apparently comes up with nothing concrete.  It’s too delicious.  “What are you doing?”

            “Trying to see whether any of these men can _dance_.”

            And before Sherlock can open his mouth again, she spots one who can.  She hands Sherlock her gift bag—he’s so surprised that he takes it without protest—and heartlessly abandons him.

            The man she chooses calls himself Denver, which in Godiva’s opinion is quite the name, and she tells him so, which makes him laugh, because she has quite the name as well.  He’s tall and dark and not the handsomest man here, but he doesn’t have to be.  She’d noticed the way he was shifting in his shoes while he chatted with his friends, how he tapped his finger absentmindedly against his trousers in exact time to the beat.  She asked him if he danced.  He said he did.  A little bit in college and then he brushed up for his wedding.  Divorced now, though.  Oh, she’s sorry to hear it.

            No reason to be.  Doesn’t mean he can’t have a good time.

            Irene doesn’t need a great partner; in fact, she’s better off with merely a good one, someone who’ll stand there and catch her waist occasionally while she pivots and twirls around them, someone who won’t draw focus.  Unlike poor divorced Denver, she’s done a fair share of dancing in her time.  Her teenage years were peppered with dance lessons and voice lessons and piano lessons and all of those things have come in handy, but not in the way her parents had expected.  Before she went off to university—indeed, even when she was in secondary school—she had to make the choice between something career-oriented and musical theater; business and pleasure.

            And she did.  With her talents, she would have ended up on the West End had she not fallen into something more lucrative, and more fun, and more dangerous.  That’s behind her, and now she works as a singer in New York City.  Funny how things have a way of coming full circle.

            Denver does the trick.  Before the song has even ended, another man cuts in to steal her away, and then another.  She acquiesces every time, laughing generously, and the other people dancing—if that’s what you can call it—eventually clear a circle to watch her as she moves, all blonde hair and white smile.  Spade’s glasses glint at her from above.  Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

            “You might’ve asked,” he rumbles from behind her.

            She turns, and out of her peripheral vision she sees her current partner, who’s unquestionably one of the more attractive men at the party, frown.  Sherlock is holding out his hand.  She looks down at it, then up at him, and raises an inquisitive eyebrow.  “I’m a lot to handle, Basil,” she says.  “I’m not sure you’re up for it, not with your health.”

            “I think you’ll find that I am, Miss Norton,” is the reply, but it’s Sherlock, not Basil, who speaks.

            “We’ll see,” Irene says mildly, and she takes his hand in hers.

            The first thing he does is spin her into him, which, admittedly, catches her off-guard.  Pressed against his chest, she rolls her eyes at him— _that’s not how we play, Mr. Holmes_ —and spins back out to dance circles around him, just as she’d done with everyone else.

            He keeps pace, though.  He reads her body and uses it to gauge when he needs to catch her waist or her hands with his hands, and while she’s leading him in a sense he serves as her counterpoint, just as smooth and stylized, coming into contact with her body only when he needs to, and never by force.  She begins to read him, too, and challenges him, pivoting when she thinks he might expect her to stay the course, twisting out of his fingers, daring him to catch up, to chase, and he does.  He chases her because he can’t stand to lose, but that’s not the only reason.  The fabric of her dress, shorter in the front than in the back, whirls around her ankles.

            “The bag,” she hisses when he’s close enough to hear.

            “With your hostess friend,” he replies.  “I did give this some thought.”

            “Did you?” She spins around, advances on him.  He steps back.  Step for step, they match each other; she improvises, mingling a couple of tango steps in with her jazz and swing, tracing her toes up his leg.  One of his large hands finds the small of her back before she twists again, out of his embrace, leading him to a different part of the floor.

            “You’re doing well,” she says, tossing the words back over her shoulder.  “I’m impressed.  Where’d you learn to dance?”

            “My mother danced ballet,” he says, and it’s all he says.

            “Ah.”  She grins.  “Well, that accounts for your natural musicality and your long legs, but not the rest of it.  Was there a case?”

            “I thought you’d done your reading up on me,” he says, catching her hand and twirling her around.

            “And there’s the famous ego,” she teases.  “Who says you’re important enough for me to recall every little detail of your life?”

            “I’m important enough that you’ll go to great lengths in attempting to make me jealous.”

            “Oh, pardon me.  I thought I was enticing Spade.”

            “Did you?”

            Before she can come up with a retort, the song ends on a long-held trumpet note, and he sweeps her low into a dip and holds her there.  Her wig is so long that it nearly brushes the ground; his arm feels solid and warm against her lower back.  She knew that it was coming, the dip, but she was not prepared for the sight of his (dyed) (disguised) head bent down over her breasts, and there’s a part of her that wants to muss his hair with her fingers and get a good grip on it, yank it back, make him meet her eyes, smile at him—and then tell him: _Yes.  Good boy.  Go on, then_.

            But it’s not a very vocal part, as they have a job to do.  Irene pushes at his shoulder, and he rights her.  When he does, she notices that Spade has reached the dance floor, has breached the circle of onlookers, and she meets his dark brown eyes with her blue ones.  He doesn’t know her, but he wants to.

            Irene is pleased.  She thought upon seeing him that her insides would become snakes, writhing, hissing, and that she’d need to excuse herself before she vomited at this remnant of the organization that had been the cause of so many humiliations.  Instead, she has hardened against him; she is cold and unyielding, like diamonds.  Her smile, however, is soft.

            “Mr. Spade,” she says.

            As if on cue, Basil doubles over, stricken by a series of asthmatic-sounding coughs.  Intentional or not, and it may not be given Sherlock’s recent illness, the coughing offers Irene the perfect opening.  Without removing her eyes from Spade’s face, Godiva says, “Basil, why don’t you get something to drink?”

            Basil nods and, still coughing, staggers away to the bar to slake his thirst.  Spade moves toward her.  The watchers, out of politeness, resume their chatter.  Irene didn’t even notice that the room had gone silent around her dance with Sherlock.

            “That was amazing,” Spade says.  “Sorry, you are…”

            “Godiva Norton.”  Irene makes a great show of pushing her hair away from her face.  She knows her cheeks are flushed from exertion, and she also knows that it only makes her more attractive.

            “Godiva,” he repeats.  “You know, I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen you before.”

            “You haven’t,” Godiva says, moderating her voice so that it isn’t overly sharp.  She holds out her hand, but before Spade can move to shake it she turns it over, palm down, fingers outstretched; he takes it, and kisses it.  How Irene longs to slap him.

            “I didn’t think so,” he says, straightening.  “I wouldn’t have forgotten a face like yours.”

            Godiva’s giggles are very demure, a stark contrast to her dancing.  Irene wants Spade to think she’s flattered.  “I’m only a friend of a friend,” she says, “but I’ve heard such great things about your parties that I just had to crash.  I brought you a present, something I know you’ll like, and I left it with my friend Basil when I went to dance, but then… he must have given it to one of the hostesses…”

            “I’m sure I’ll get it later.”

            “I’d like to give it to you myself,” Godiva presses.  “I want to see the look on your face.”

            “Well, now I’m curious,” says Spade, running a hand through his hair.  It’s thick, a chestnut brown that’s definitely unnatural.  He’s been dyeing it.  Going gray at an early age?  The stress of his situation must be that intense.  “Although if it’s half as gorgeous—”

            She waves him off, giggling again.  “Mr. Spade, _please_.”

            “Call me Daniel.”

            “Daniel,” Godiva repeats.  Spade had never told Irene Adler that she could call him Daniel.  Just as well.  His first name sits oily on her tongue.  “I should locate your present, and my friend.  I want to make sure he’s all right.”

            “Okay,” says Spade, and he begins to cross the floor, past Godiva, but as he does he brushes a hand down the bare skin of her upper arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh where it makes contact.  “Find me later.  Whatever you’ve got, I want to see it.”

            “I will,” Godiva says with a winsome smile, even though Irene is in there, somewhere, cringing at the touch.  (How many times had Moran tried to do something similar?  How many times had she dug the pointed heel of her shoe into his toes as retribution?)

            So it’s Irene Adler who turns away and moves to join Basil at the bar.  It’s Irene Adler who counts under her breath to compose herself, a trick she learned from a dear friend.  She’ll need something to drink before they execute the plan’s second phase.

* * *

            Basil drops his elbow on the table, props his cheek against his palm, and loudly sucks another cherry in through his teeth.  Across from him, Godiva seems poised to comment on his lack of manners when he says, with Sherlock’s voice, “Mercenaries.”

            Well-trained mercenaries.  Nearly all of Spade’s staff.  Hardly unexpected, given current events.  Spade is not taking any chances with home security.

            “Have you retrieved it?” Irene asks sharply, dropping all pretense.

            “Here,” he says, depositing the gift bag onto the table.  Ever obliging and ignorant, Amber the hostess held onto it while they were dancing.  “Do you see them?”

            “I’m not blind.”

            Even the waitresses carrying around tonight’s appetizers (mixed fruit and cheese shish kebabs, tomato rosemary focaccia, prosciutto-wrapped dates) (it’s nice to think calmly again) have a myriad of tools to defend themselves and their benefactor.  Concealed knives: only the beginning of it.  If he had more time, he’d locate every false painting in the dining hall that disguises a hiding place for weapons.

            “His own personal army,” Irene adds.  She sips but doesn’t swallow from a long-stemmed wine glass (possibly Riedel Sommelier, or Schott Zwiesel?) cradled in her fingers.  He smiles in spite of himself.  Even when she’s not in character, she is a breathtaking vision.  Annoying.  Not annoying enough to distract him now.

            “Funded with the money of Moriarty’s empire, I imagine.”

            Irene sets down the wine glass.  “I wouldn’t use that name so freely, especially around here.”

            Sherlock says, flatly, “I don’t care,” before biting another (seedless, overly ripe) cherry off of his shish kebab.  (Almost makes him gag.)  He’s terribly bored of paranoia right now.  In more than one way, he’s looking forward to confrontation.  If one of Spade’s lackeys overhears him and swoops in, he doesn’t think he would mind at all.  Irene hasn’t realized that parts of his plan have changed overnight.  She’d never allow it if she knew, but she doesn’t need to know.  It’ll be fine.  Yes.

            _John, you’d understand, wouldn’t you?  You have the same desire for combat._

            “I do care.”  Irene’s tone permits no further argument.  She leans forward to lessen the distance between them.  “Still, you’re right.  From what I’ve learned, after our old friend divested himself of his brain matter, his inner circle collapsed upon itself.  Spade was the personal accountant, handling the financial aspects of the empire, the things our old friend couldn't be bothered with.  It was a very comfortable position, balancing the books, and he was—I emphasize _was—_ a genius of an investor.  In fact, his returns were so great that our old friend even let him skim a little off the top from time to time.  Of course, that upset a few people."  Moran, she means.  She says it so gleefully.  "But when the ship began to sink, Spade decided to take his chances by fleeing with the rest of the vermin.”

            “Which undoubtedly made him even more popular with a fierce loyalist like Moran.”  And explains the presence of so many bodyguards.

            “Not so _loud._ ”  Irene cradles her brow as if she has a headache.  Always an actress—she elicits no sympathy from him.  “Spade emptied out most of the bank accounts and fled overseas, and now we bear witness to his extravagance.  He buys friends in high places and hosts parties for them, surrounding himself with a wall of devotees.  All to protect himself from the coming storm.”

            Impressive, if pathetic.

            “How many of these ‘birthday parties’ has he had?” Sherlock asks.

            “ _Seven_ that I know of _—_ four in the last six months.  Probably more than that.  He’s celebrating the fact he’s still alive.”

            Obviously.  Couldn’t help but notice the party streamers and other decorations have been tinged yellow from frequent exposure to cigarette smoke.  (God, what he wouldn’t do for a cigarette right now.)  The signs of hedonism are everywhere, sunk into everything—but he won’t waste his time condemning Daniel Spade for it.  Sherlock knows what it’s like to be hunted, too, and he knows the strength it takes to keep going, to keep breathing.  (Are you doing it?  Just relax.  Breathe.)  If he lives to see his next birthday, he’ll be sure to celebrate it for the first time in years.  Seven times in a row, even.

            If he ends up buried in a ditch somewhere, one of Moran’s bullets lodged his brain—then he just wasn't good enough.

            His ribs feel like dull shards of glass when he inhales.  “The past will catch up to Spade eventually,” he mutters, giving up on the cherries.  Fact: he thinks best on an empty stomach.  “For now, Moran has his hands full dealing with—”

            “You.”

            “Jeremy,” he says automatically.  “To be perfectly accurate.”

            “Let's ponder your split personalities later, shall we?”  She tugs the gift bag across the table, then reaches inside.  The false bottom rustles as her fingers bypass it (thank god it wasn’t discovered).  “We have more important things to do, if you’re sufficiently rested.”

            He holds out his hand to her, palm up.  “I’m trusting you not to get _closer_ to Spade than is necessary,” he says.  “Remember: we won’t get out of here any other way than how we got in.”

            "If it isn’t blindingly obvious, Spade hasn’t recognized me—he won’t.  We only met a few times when I was collaborating with our old friend, and I think he was happy to forget me.  Besides, I look like a different person."

            Further aided, Sherlock reflects, by how Irene resorted to plastic surgery in order to blend into her new environment.  Spade isn't the only one in exile in New York City, avoiding the fallout of Moriarty's crumbled empire.  The blonde hair is a wig, yes, but the rest of her—higher brow, sharper nose, fuller lips—has changed permanently.  (Disappointing.  He preferred the original.  Unfair to think so; nonetheless true.)  (Life has never been fair.)

            Irene retrieves something ovular from the gift bag: it’s about the size of her hand, wrapped in a silky red cloth.  Feels almost cold when it makes contact with his skin.  Insurance.  Part of the plan.  “I know what I’m doing, Mr. Holmes,” she tells him, pressing down on the cloth, as his fingers curl in.

            “I’ll hold you to it.”

            “Now there’s an idea.”  She smiles (in a way that pleases him), then squeezes his wrist.  “Take care of yourself, too.  For your own sake.  And if not for your own sake, then for the sake of the good doctor who’s waiting for you.”

            His throat constricts.  “What about you?” he manages to ask.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Why not for _your_ sake?”

            Something shutters behind her eyes (an attempted retreat), although her smile doesn’t budge.  Hearing her admit anything about how she feels about him would be a miraculous event.  But she does feel something; he’s sure of it.  His skin is so warm with it.  Has been ever since their impromptu dance.

            “Spade would have a dreadful time getting your blood out of his carpet,” Irene says.  “Spare him the expense of replacing it by not being caught, would you?”

* * *

            After a few minutes of searching, Irene finds Daniel Spade outside on the back patio, lounging in one of the recliners by the pool, taking a cigarette break.  On one sunny afternoon in London when they both got pulled into a meeting with Jim Moriarty, Spade ground out his cigarette before entering the room, smiled, and excused the nasty habit as social smoking.  Irene noticed quickly enough that he actually puffed on his cigarettes whenever he had bad news to deliver.

            Spade smokes at least a pack a day now, maybe two going by the stains on his fingers.  Teeth are still white—the best whitening strips money can buy, no doubt—but his fingers show what he’s about, clear as day.  He doesn’t know when the end is coming, and it terrifies him.

            Irene plans to help ease his mind tonight.  Sherlock doesn’t know, of course.  Sherlock can’t know.  Sherlock, who, as per their plan, is discreetly making his way to the house’s security office right now, would be cross if he knew _her_ plans had changed—rather, that they’d never quite matched up with his in the first place.  She can’t quite muster the energy to care.

            “Look who I found sitting alone,” she says in a lilting voice, sitting down in the chair next to Spade’s and setting the gift bag on her lap.  “Party not exciting enough for you?”

            Spade sits up, straightens his spine, runs a hand through his hair.  It’s too early in the evening for his tie to be so loose, for his top button to have already come undone.  “Godiva,” he says.  “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.  How’s your friend?”

            _As if you care_.  Godiva raises her eyebrows.  “He’ll live, but when he has enough breath to talk, he doesn’t _stop_.  It’s an unfortunate habit of his.”  Spade laughs, and she continues, “So I was hoping to keep you company for a little while.  It’s quiet out here.  But if I’m interrupting—should I leave you to your thoughts?”

            “No, don’t.”  He sighs, smiling at her with his artificially whitened teeth.  “They weren’t all that pleasant.  Business stuff.  And, hey, it’s a party!”  He spreads his hands, cigarette stuck between his index and middle fingers.  “I should be celebrating.”

            “That’s what I thought.”  Godiva shakes her hair over her shoulder, exposing her collarbones, her long neck.  “I came to bring the party to you.  It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah.  I’m too old.  Too damn old.”  He takes a long drag on his cigarette, and then he spies the bag on her lap.  “That for me?”

            He’s had more than a few drinks, Irene surmises, if he’s being this honest.  He reaches out for the bag, and Godiva raps him on the knuckles, gently.  The bag crinkles as she shifts.  “ _Careful_ ,” she chides.  “It’s very fragile.  Besides, I don’t want you opening it out here.  I want you to see it in the light.”

            “Oh, Go _di_ va, that’s unfair.  It’s my present.”

            “They say good things come to those who wait,” she murmurs, leaning forward, looking up at him through lowered lashes.  “I think you can find it in you to be a patient man for a little while.”

            “Hm,” he says, but he’s pleased, because the tone of her voice implies that later on he’ll be able to unwrap her, too, if he behaves himself.  He’s looking forward to it.  He holds up his cigarette carton.  “Want one?”

            “No, thank you.  I can’t have those.  I sing.”

            “Oh, you’re a singer?”

            “I sing,” she repeats.  She’s a dominatrix.  (Not anymore.)  “Jazz, mostly.”

            “I like jazz.”

            “I could tell.”

            “Hm,” Spade says again, puffing on his cigarette.  “Do any private concerts?”

            “A few, here and there, if the money’s good,” says Godiva, clasping her hands her lap, the gift bag tucked between her arms.  “Why, you offering?”

            “I might be.  It’d be nice to have live entertainment at my next party.”

            “Your next party?  Your next birthday’s a year off, isn’t it?”

            His eyes flicker briefly down to her breasts as he says, “Do I really need an excuse to listen to a beautiful woman sing?”

            “Daniel, please!”  Godiva holds up one of her hands.  “You don’t even know if I’m any good.”

            “If you sing anywhere _near_ as well as you dance, I doubt that’ll be an issue.”

            “Please,” she says again, quietly this time, blushing, looking away.  “You’re flattering me.”

            “I’m telling the truth.”  Spade’s eyes glow as he watches her, with lust, yes, and just a bit of fondness.  He likes her.  He thinks she’d be easy to bed, certainly, but Irene doesn’t have any doubt that he’d call her for that private concert after he’s through.  She’s the type of woman he can see hanging off of his arm as a glittering token, pleasant enough to make conversation, smart enough to be just a little bit interesting, sexy enough to make other men fume with envy.

            He never saw Irene Adler that way.  None of them did, the inner circle—“Moriarty’s boys,” she called them.  The first time she sat down with them, they eyed her with suspicion.  When it became clear that she wasn’t just there for decoration, one of the men—Monroe, not Spade—had asked what she was supposed to be doing there.  What could she possibly bring to the table that they didn’t already have covered?  Jim Moriarty, may he rest in pieces, just looked at her, his head cocked to one side, and she began enumerating from the top of her head all of the vices that the five other men in the room so desperately strove to hide.  (He stopped her just before she could mention Moran’s habit of falling into bed with the boss.  Pity, that.)

            The way she sat there, so calm, so poised, so unthreatened, that made them angry.  Godiva, with her pink lips and loose, wavy blonde hair, who dances like a vixen but blushes when she’s complimented, wouldn’t make anyone angry.  She doesn’t have enough substance for that.  Men like Spade, that’s what they look for.

            Spade’s phone buzzes, startling Irene from her reverie and Spade from his perusal of her.  He grins, reaches into his pocket, and unceremoniously turns it off.  “Probably just someone unhappy with the food,” he says.  “It usually is.  Some drunk wanders into the kitchens and thinks he can boss my people around.”

            “I don’t know what he’d have to complain about,” Godiva says amiably, but Irene wonders if that’s all there is to it.  She stands abruptly.  “Everything’s been wonderful tonight.  In fact, there’s so much of your house I still haven’t seen,” she purrs, straightening out her dress.  “I’d like the grand tour, if you’re feeling up to it.”

            Spade grinds out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray that sits on the table between them.  “Huh,” he says.  The reflection from the pool gives his face a bluish cast.  “So I should just abandon the rest of my guests and devote all of my attention to you, is that what you’re telling me?”

            “Just for a little while, but…”  Godiva sighs wistfully.  “I’ve heard so much about this house of yours, especially that _collection_ you have going.”  She shrugs.  “How about it?  Show a girl a good time?”

            Spade chuckles.  He’s only stalling now to build her up, not because he doesn’t want to go off with her.  In fact, he’s probably trying to figure out which route will get her to his bedroom as soon as possible.  “Your date won’t mind?”

            Godiva’s laugh is light, pealing.  “Oh, Daniel,” she says.  “Have you seen him?  He’s a wonderful dancer, but you could probably break his spine with your little finger.”

            Smirking, Spade says, “Just between us, Godiva, that’s not all my little finger’s good for.”

            He offers her his arm, and she takes it with her left hand, the gift bag’s handle clutched in her right.  When Irene’s the one doing the touching, it’s not so terrible.  She’ll be able to get through this without issue, as long as Sherlock hurries it up.

            “Well,” she says, “I can’t wait to find out what you mean.”

* * *

            Basil strides into the mansion’s kitchen as though he owns the ground he walks on.  His steps aren’t thunderous, but they don’t need to be.  He demands attention with more than his outward appearance.  Stinking of alcohol, convinced of his own immortality, he wrests the nearest mercenary-waitress by the arm and drags her into him.  She drops a freshly cooked entrée; the plate shatters on the floor, scattering in every direction, alerting everyone else.  He leers.  Her free hand dips into her skirt, instinct guiding her to a weapon—the click of a knife leaving its sheath is unmistakable—Basil slams her savagely against the counter and screams, “What the _hell_ do you think you're playing at?!”

            Quickly now.  He drags her hand and her switchblade into view before disarming her.  The edge of the blade is sharp—she could have fileted him like a fish if she got a good enough angle.

            The sous-chef—a bit frightened, mostly confused, hired for only his management abilities—takes a small step toward Basil.  No one else dares to breathe.  (Intimidation won’t last forever.  _Quickly._ )

            “Don’t you know who I am?” Basil demands, now pointing the switchblade at the waitress.  Giving her more than an inch of space to move could be a deadly mistake.  “Weren’t you told about me in advance?”

            “Please put the knife down, sir,” says the sous-chef.  Stalling tactics.  Pointless.

            Basil laughs wildly.  “I knew it!  You’re all idiots!”

            “What’s the problem here?” asks another voice behind him.  Hardened.  Commanding.  Definitely from the security department.  They move as fast as adders, don’t they, thanks to the closed-circuit cameras.  The situation is already spiraling out of control—but that’s what he wants.  “I’ll have to ask you to put down the knife, sir.”  Basil cocks his head at the sound of a gun holster popping open.  Probably not the first time Spade’s people have had to deal with a violent, delirious guest.  Designer psychotropic drugs tend to bring out the worst in people.

            “I’m not doing _anything_ until you listen to what I have to say,” Basil hisses, reasserting his grip on the switchblade.  “You’ve treated me like I’m some puny leech that just so happened to wander in tonight.  I was stopped at the door and _questioned—_ I was questioned!  Me!  And the service here?  Abysmal.  It feels like I’m being mocked, and I really don’t take kindly to that.”

            “I hear you, sir, and I’m listening to what you’re saying—but you don’t want this to escalate any further.”  The security officer sounds like a reasonable man.  If Basil could take his eyes off of the waitress, he’d know if the guard has a history as a police mediator or something similar.  Talking down kidnappers, potential suicides, et cetera.  “Just put down the knife, and we can talk about it.”

            Movement in his peripheral vision.  Ah, the security officer is coming closer.  Basil’s eyes flick to the side: on the guard’s jacket is a nameplate, indicating he is _Carl_.  “Your boss has got a lot to answer for,” Basil says, matter-of-fact.

            “My boss?”

            “You didn’t know I was coming tonight.”

            The waitress’ fingers creep along the sideboard.  She’s getting ready to use one of the large metal serving platters against Basil—it’s heavy enough to do some serious damage.  Carl looks at her first, though, his face grim, and then shakes his head as subtly as possible.  He _does_ want to be reasonable.  Spade must not like spilling too much blood after all.

            “Better late than never, right?” Carl asks calmly.  “Who are you?”

            “My name is Basil, and I’ve been sent here for important negotiations.”

            “And who are you affiliated with?”

            Basil’s lips crimp into a smile when he says, “Sebastian Moran.”

            The chilling effect of that name is immediate and noticeable.  Even the ignorant sous-chef reacts with a nervous shiver.  Basil would bet anyone with a pair of ears has heard about the illustrious Sebastian Moran through the workplace grapevine.  To his credit, Carl barely reacts aside from taking his hand off of his gun holster.

            “Sebastian Moran,” Carl repeats.  “That’s who you work for.”

            “You heard me,” Basil says impishly.  “I’m here to make arrangements for what’s rightfully Mr. Moran’s.”

            Carl surges forward with intent to—  “ _Don’t you dare touch me_ ,” Basil bellows and strafes to the left.  The leftmost section of the kitchen seems devoted to meat preparation: poultry, beef, lamb, more exotic things.  He frightens away the lesser chefs like a lion among mice.  “If anything happens to me, if a single hair on my goddamn head is disturbed, then Mr. Moran is going to know about it and he’s going to come here and burn this place to the ground.  Do you hear me?  You'll all _burn_.  Don’t test me.”

            In a placating gesture, Carl holds up both of his hands.  “All right, all right, I’m sorry about that.  Let’s just take a deep breath and get on the same page, huh?  You want to speak with Mr. Spade, I take it?”

            “Yes, that’s exactly what I want.”  Basil nods rapidly, then has a stroke of inspiration.  “And I want to speak to your head chef, because the chicken you’re serving practically crawled across my plate for how undercooked it was.”

            “I’ll see what I can do.”  Careful not to make any sudden movements, Carl unhooks his walkie-talkie from his belt.  “I promise you’ll leave here tonight completely satisfied.”

            Basil’s teeth tear into a succulent chicken sandwich as he’s led out of the kitchens by an entire contingent of security officers.  They form a loose diamond shape around him, trying to obscure him from view of the party guests, on the way to the employees-only elevator at the rear of the mansion.  _Mr. Spade will be alerted to your presence_ , they said. _We’ll arrange a meeting for you in the security office_ , they said.  Exactly where he expected they’d bring him.  Irene believes he is using a less confrontational method of locating the security office, but this one works just as well.  If nothing else, it caused adrenaline to rush through his veins for the first time in months.

            “How do you find your sandwich, sir?” Carl asks.

            “Passable,” he replies, his mouth full.

            “Mr. Basil, you shouldn’t feel like you're in danger,” says the security officer named Debra.  She gestures to the switchblade he’s still wielding like he intends to use it.  “Why don’t I take that off your hands?”

            Basil tucks himself even more into the corner of the elevator.  “Do you think I’m being funny?  I’ll cut you six ways from Sunday.”

            Another security officer, this one named Derek: “You’d think Sebastian Moran would ask his so-called _negotiator_ to lay off the drugs before coming to a meeting like this.”

            “Don’t be rude to our guest,” Carl says wearily, as the elevator dings and the doors slide open.  “We’ll figure this out, and then Mr. Basil will be free to go on his way.  No harm, no foul.”  He steps out into a long concrete hallway, gray-green and sterile, which reminds Basil of a prison.  The hum of computer equipment—the center of the hive for so many cameras, so much coordination—permeates the air.

            The security office at the end of the hallway is a fluorescent dream.  Dozens of computer monitors line an entire wall, from floor to ceiling, giving the office a glow that flickers at the edges.  According to Mycroft’s intelligence, the video data harvested by computers here is frequently moved off-site for backup purposes and later analysis.  Basil can only hope that Mycroft’s people won’t botch the external expunging operation.  This needs to be done neatly.

            (And Godiva needs to keep her wig on for the cameras.  Mycroft would never forgive him for accepting _Irene Adler’s_ help, considering she’s supposed to be dead.)

            “Sit right here,” Carl says, directing Basil to an empty chair near the security desk.  “I’ll call Mr. Spade and get the ball rolling for you.”

            Basil takes his time with finishing the sandwich while he scans his surroundings.  The guards each have a handgun; there’s a cabinet of semiautomatic rifles beside the desk.  They’re undoubtedly trained in close-quarters combat, just like the mercenaries, but they’re loyal to Spade himself and will fight even better because of it.

            Debra bumps shoulders with Carl.  “Where is he?” she asks, trying to whisper, her voice not low enough to escape Basil.

            Carl frowns at her, disliking the personal contact.  “Mr. Spade’s phone is turned off,” he whispers back.  He closes his mobile phone.  “That means…”

            “That means he’s with a woman.”  Debra makes it sound like this is so painfully typical.  “I guess we’ll be watching over the chicken-loving manchild for the rest of the evening.  Do you think we’ll get compensation?”

            “This is more than a little urgent,” Carl says, sighing, shaking his head.  “I’ll go fetch Spade.  You stay here—you know what to do if he gets rowdy.  Derek, I want you to find out why we weren’t informed of Moran’s man before ten minutes ago.”  He squints when his walkie-talkie crackles, and brings it to his ear.  “… Our people at the entrance claim Mr. Basil arrived with a woman named Godiva Norton.  We haven’t heard a peep from her.  Stan, go find her.”

            “I’m on it, Carl.”

            Everyone else leaves the room, leaving Basil and Debra alone.  This is perfect.  This is even easier than he thought it would be.  In fact, he's overprepared.  He smiles at Debra and finishes the last bite of his sandwich with a flourish.  She doesn’t smile back.

            “How much are they paying you?” he asks.

            “None of your business,” she replies.

            “Mr. Moran would pay twice— _thrice—_ whatever it is for a piece of eye candy like you.  He has a thing for that, you know, femme fatale ideal.”  Basil waves a hand vaguely.  “You’d fit in rather well.”

            Debra feigns a yawn.

            “You’re not as stupid as you look, right?” Basil says, leaning forward on his knees.  His fingers casually slip into the pocket of his trousers.  “You know the war is coming.  It doesn’t matter how much Daniel Spade tries to shore up his defenses—they’ll be flattened in no time, and not even by Sebastian Moran.”

            Debra regards him suspiciously—more suspiciously than before.  “What are you talking about?”

            “It’s just, I heard some fairly credible rumors that Jeremy Sigerson, the man famous for unraveling Moriarty’s empire, has made landfall in New York.  Spade would be at the top of his blacklist.”

            “I ain’t scared—Mr. Spade ain’t scared of some kid with a big brain.”

            “I wouldn’t underestimate Sigerson,” Basil says, smiling wider, and pulls out his inhaler.  “Did you hear about how he infiltrated that compound in Siberia single-handedly?  Killed half of the guards right there on the spot because they forced him to.  He stole countless files belonging to the empire—so many valuable documents which led to the search and seizure of Mr. Moran's more legitimate business assets by the authorities.  To top it off, he ambushed and tortured their leader, William Monroe, one of Mr. Moriarty's staunchest supporters, for even more information.

            “When Sigerson left, the place burning down behind him, all evidence of his siege erased, the survivors desperately tried to stop him—but they died too, in the snow, crying for their mothers.  _That_ is what happens in a war.”

            Debra's tongue works against the inside of her cheek.  “I said I ain’t scared,” she says slowly, beginning to realize something is wrong with that morbid tale.  “But… if he killed everybody involved, and cleaned up after himself, then how do _you_ know what happened?”

            “Good question.”

            Basil whips his arm forward, throwing the pocketknife at Debra's face.  She blocks it easily, of course she does, but the element of surprise is enough for Basil to launch himself at her.  He kicks her in the gut, sending her flying back into the firearms cabinet.  She doesn’t have enough time to recover before he pops off the cap off of his modified inhaler and drags her by her hair into a stream of riot-strength pepper spray.  She squeals and gags, trying to close her eyes, but it's too late for that.  She vomits when it reaches her mouth.

            Her useless scrabbling for her gun ends abruptly, finally, when he retrieves the pocketknife and stabs it deep into her shoulder.  Her blood splatters against him.

            And he feels nothing.  Nothing at all.

            “I sincerely hope you don’t have a disease,” he murmurs, licking her blood from the corner of his mouth.

            _Dear John_ , he thinks hollowly, following Debra to the floor, where he twists the knife and listens to her muffled screams against his arm.  She’ll lose consciousness soon from the pain and not having enough air to breathe.  She doesn’t need to die here.  _Would you hate me more, or less, to know that I'm doing this for you?_

            Less than a minute later, his disguise exhausted, Sherlock stands up again.

            “Now,” he says and approaches the computer equipment feeding into the wall of monitors, “where to begin?”

* * *

**RE: Been A While**

John Watson johnwatson.fanmail@gmail.com  
to Jeremy Sigerson jeremysigerson@gmail.com  
June 14th

Jeremy,

You sound like one of those meditation tapes my therapist used to make me listen to.  You do realise that no matter what you say, I’ll worry?  I mean as much as I value the sentiment, I’m still going to be left wondering what you’re up to and if you’re okay.  Promises are all well and good but they’re nothing compared to hearing your voice over the phone.

I do intend to keep breathing.  I feel like something bad would happen if I didn’t.  Not sure, though.  They didn’t quite cover that in medical school.

In all seriousness, be careful.  I’d rather hear about the things you’re doing before you do them but I know emails can be hacked and that’s probably not safe, so hearing about your activities in a timely manner is probably the best I can hope for.  So I do appreciate the effort, thank you.

Of course I forgive you.  Don’t worry about that.

You described this party or whatever it is as a ‘Bond night’ over the phone and while I sincerely hope that your definition of Bond night is the same as mine – staying in and watching movies – I’m pretty sure that isn’t the case.  If you’re planning on pulling any stunts, I hope you imagine me giving you a disapproving glare and think better of it.  I know I already wrote it once but: be careful, please.

I feel better and yes, I’ve been eating.  The entire book release is surreal.  Of course it’s long, I have a lot to say.  Glad you like the new title, I thought it was a bit silly.  My editor thought that it needed to be a little more ‘spicy’ for marketing purposes but none of the content has changed.  The most ‘private’ it gets is his relationship with Irene Adler which to tell you the truth I still don’t fully understand.  I intentionally left out some of the juicier bits but well, I’ll tell you later.

See how it feels to be left hanging?  I’m only teasing.  You’ll just be dying of suspense until we talk tomorrow.

Take your own advice, Jeremy Sigerson.  Nothing stupid.  Call me soon.

Always yours,  
John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're ever wondering what's going on with this story and when it will update next, both of the authors have Tumblrs, which they use to occasionally bemoan the writing process, post snippets, and talk about what's in store for John, Jeremy, and everyone else. Seth (h3rring, who writes Jeremy/Sherlock) can be found [here](http://h3rring.tumblr.com/), and Chelsea (makokitten, who writes John and Irene) is [here](http://makokitten.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading! We'll try to update more quickly next time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustration for The Sigerson Letters: Graffiti from the Cadillac Ranch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/589971) by [hechicera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hechicera/pseuds/hechicera)
  * [Cover for The Sigerson Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873819) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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